Truth or Tale (The Story Behind the Story)
by kaispan
Summary: Growing up in a library would be a dream for some, a prison for others-like the bardic bookworm and the roguish rapscallion, two girls who couldn't be more different. But when they were best friends, that didn't matter. And sometimes it's the quiet ones who can stir up the most trouble... (Imoen & PC friendship: the Candlekeep backstory leading up to the events of BG1.)
1. Chapter 1

Some of you may have read my fic "What was Taken" a couple years ago, with my bard PC x Edwin. (If you haven't, don't—I'm in the midst of re-writing/working up to it; it will be much better. ;)) This is sort of a prologue/her backstory—at least the first seven chapters—then we get into the events of BG1. _  
_

* * *

_Kythorn 25, 1355 DR  
Year of the Harp_

"It takes an extraordinary amount of discipline to conjure magic, Sajantha. Not something that might be mastered on your first attempt."

Sajantha scrubbed her hand across her eyes. It was nowhere near her first attempt. But she couldn't say that. Couldn't say _anything_, the way her throat felt closed up, never mind speak a spell. But she must. She'd practiced the intonations, the motions, over and over, stayed awake past candleglass every night for a tenday studying. Mustered all her concentration, all her energy—shaking from the effort!—and not even a spark to show for it.

"Do not be disheartened." Her father smiled at her. But he was disappointed. He must have been. He who had effortlessly called down a sea of stars to swim in, wreathed the room in light to show her. And she had laughed—delighted, danced—as the lights drifted down around her. Filled her vision, her heart.

He looked down at her now with the same stars still shining in his eyes. Sajantha could not smile back.

The only light left in the room filtered first through the tower windows, fading as it reached them. Her father's hair flashed silver in the moonlight as he bent his head. When he straightened, a flat, round object lay upon his palm.

"There is magic already within it," he said, guiding her hand across the smooth surface. "It needs but a word, to be reminded. To wake." He whispered it. Beneath her fingers, the stone seemed to hum.

"_Rocen,_" she repeated. And what felt a hum swelled to a sound, a buzz that trembled up her arm. She drew back with a gasp as darts of light shot forth, zipped through the air around them. They soared upward, multiplying, til they painted the ceiling: a screen of stars.

So beautiful—so bright—she could barely look up. "Is that what it feels like? To cast a spell?" Sajantha held her still-tingling fingers to her chest, but could not press back the smile that filled her, filled her so full it left no room to take a breath.

"How will you know, if you give up now?"

She couldn't. Couldn't give up. And Sajantha turned to tell her father so, but he was still smiling; he already knew. Knew everything.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_ Midsummer, 1358  
Year of Shadows_

The Midsummer feast nearly didn't happen, despite being planned tendays in advance. Despite Sajantha's advocacy. Not that she had any real position in the keep. Newly twelve, but her insistence meant nothing, and her age even less. Stupid to insist upon a celebration, then; stupider to think any might be in the mood for one.

Lacking the traditional scarlet and gold wreaths, bare of festive trappings at all, the library seemed far more subdued than even normal. But what was normal, now? The silence filling the walls—filling them to bursting—pushed the air right out; the hush hung heavy. The monks might have at least tried to lift it. To lift spirits. It wasn't as though Midsummer came as a surprise, after all, not like when the gods all tumbled to the earth.

Forty-five days ago, and counting. Not just the Watchers watched; the whole of Candlekeep waited, breath bated, for a sign from the heavens. But the heavens were silent, too.

"You're just upset 'cause you missed out on your own party." Imoen's grin seemed strange in the somber hall, but her face would have looked stranger without it.

Sajantha almost stuck out her tongue; she would have, if her father hadn't been seated beside her. "That's not so," she said, instead. Ill luck though it had been for Ao to shake up the order of the world right before her birthday.

"Guess a party couldn't hurt," Imoen relented. "What do you say, Mister G? Think you could help us conjure up some cheer?"

"Aye," he answered, "for when else might it most be needed?"

But neither smiles nor words could dispel the pall creeping over them, this literal shadow: like spilled ink, it spread, and grew to fill the room, turning the dining hall dark as deepnight. Flickering candles lit uneasy faces, food forgotten. Sajantha's chair scraped across the tiled floor as she stood, echoed as others clamored to their feet.

Darkness pressed in through the black slits which split the library's sturdy walls. Sajantha could only see her reflection in those towering windows—backlit, her wild blonde hair looked afire—the candlelight behind her only solidified the blackness before. Her breath fogged the glass.

She pressed her palm against the window. Jerked it back. "Father?" The warmth of her hand lent its print but briefly upon the icy surface, the chill the glass left lasted much longer. "Something's wrong—"

Porcelain and silver clinked together, clashed with a cry. Slumped against the table, the First Reader clutched his chest. "Mystra," he gasped, eyes wide and watering. "My—my Lady. She has fallen."

"Fallen! How? How do you mean, sir?" Had the gods not fallen already?

"Dead." Tethtoril stared, eyes wet and dull and dimming. "She is dead."

Mutters of surprise and fear set the room abuzz, and prickled on her skin. Sajantha shivered. "That—that can't be right." The gathered monks all looked as shocked as she. "She can't die. The steward of magic? Mystra can't be dead." The chill reached her chest, nestled inside. Her heart beat faster to dislodge it. "She's—she's a deity. How can she be dead?"

_"When shadows descend upon the lands, our divine lords will walk alongside us as equals,"_ her father spoke, and every soul in the room recognized that prophecy; it had left the Chant not two months before. When it had come to pass. Ought they have known, then, just what was coming? This was the Year of Shadows, after all. The connection seemed obvious only now. Too late.

"Oghma shelter his servants," someone whispered. But what might Oghma do? The Binder of Knowledge was down here, too. As_ equals: _no more safe than they. He could die, too—be dead, already! How would they even know? Tethtoril was one of Mystra's _Chosen_. If Oghma left her—if he died—would she even be able to tell? Sajantha gripped the silver scroll of her necklace. How to pray to a god who could not hear you? And why, if he could do nothing?

Imoen moved closer to her as the murmurs rose, overlapping; more voices climbed in volume as they stepped over each other. "What do we do?" they asked, "Is nowhere safe?"

"This is as safe a place as any. The gods have ever protected Candlekeep."

"Gods—what gods? The gods scattered across _Toril? _There's no gods right now; there's no magic—"

The First Reader's shaking hands did little to stifle his sobs.

How could there not be magic? Darkness rippled over Sajantha, wrapping her in a chill no cloak could protect against; this shadow threatened to devour the room entire, dimming spirits as it did.

Imoen grabbed her arm. "What was that spell?" the younger girl demanded. "The light—we need some _light. _Where's that disc of yours at?"

Sajantha fumbled in her pockets. The stone sat cold in her hand; she had used up its charge earlier that day.

Imoen shuddered, shaking her head. "This ain't right." Her pale face seemed to float in the blackness that came near to swallowing it. "Is this magic? Is that what it's s'posed to feel like?" She rubbed her arms. "_Sajantha_," she pleaded, and Sajantha felt every day older of the seventeen months that separated them, all piled on her at once.

She grit her teeth. Magic. Yes. She could do that. Do _something_. A spell—a _dispel_. Her father had used such a casting to clear the air after using his own magic. If she could only recall the words! The disc warmed in her hand as her lips moved, "_Aussir nomeno oium—_"

The windows flashed white. Sajantha's burning fingers nearly dropped her talisman. The burst of light left her blinking away spots, and she fumbled for support. Her father gripped her shoulder; she jumped.

"An omen," someone said. Imoen rushed to the window, her smile creeping back as surely as the light did. Enough to see out the windows, at least, to see snow drifting down. Snow. In mid-summer. She heard a curse. "As if our luck were not ill enough." Sajantha looked away, pressed her face against her father's robes.

"What is the Weave without the Weaver?" Her father's voice rumbled. "Loose strands fly free with none to watch them. Accounts among Netheril's survivors spoke much the same."

Netheril? Gravity gathered, rocking her feet—like the ground might just sweep out from under her. In these high towers, it suddenly seemed quite possible, that they could fall just as Netheril had, plummet right out of the sky. And wasn't it much the same? The greatest magical city in all of history—all its lore lost when it fell—and Candlekeep was the greatest repository of knowledge today. But something like that couldn't happen again. It _couldn't._

And two months ago, gods could not walk the earth. "What do you mean?" She clutched her father's sleeve for balance.

"Mystra is not the first goddess of magic to have passed. Her predecessor sacrificed herself: to preserve the Weave of Magic from an archmage that sought to steal it. Weave or Weaver, one cannot exist without the other." He squeezed her shoulder. "And magic is far too dangerous to cast when rules will not shape it."

"I'm sorry." Sajantha ducked her head against him. "I didn't mean to make it snow, Father."

"I know." He lifted his arm around her; she burrowed beneath it.

_An ill omen. _Midsummer was supposed to be full of love and laughter. Light. She tried not to think about her backfired spell. Or the creeping dark that came before it.

"Ah, my child." The reassuring weight of his arm pressed her close. "'None of this was your fault. Do not fret. Midsummer is a time for cheer, after all. Even such as it is."

She played with her necklace, tugged at it. "Hard to be cheerful," she admitted, "when Tethtoril's not."

"The Realms themselves in peril, and 'tis only Tethtoril's suffering that troubles you?"

"I don't know the whole Realms, Father. I know him." Tethtoril had ever had a smile for her. And she had never seen a grown man weep.

"Time is the healer of all things, Sajantha. The First Reader will recover, do not fear. And whenever a god should die, another ascends to take their place. _T__he heart of the world shall continue to beat. _It will be alright."

"Alaundo!" Sajantha recognized the sage's words, whispered them to herself, "_There will always be a tomorrow.__.._" She squirmed free, tugging the talisman from her pocket. "I want to give Tethtoril this."

"You would give it away?" Her father tilted his head. "I had thought it meant more to you."

"It does—it means a lot. I love it, Father; I really do. But what it means is a symbol. What it stands for. And I think Tethtoril should have it. He could use it more than I, right now."

A smile softened his eyes. "Very well. Shall we go offer it to him, then?"

"Thanks." Her hand slid easily into his own. "Thank you, Father. It was a really nice gift, you know? I did like it."

The First did not look up til Sajantha touched his shoulder, and then he jumped. She only increased his startlement when she explained; Tethtoril shook his head, waved her away. "You—you keep it, child. 'Tis yours, after all."

"But I want you to have it. To... to remind you. There's still magic, sir. There's still hope."

Tethtoril blinked as she set the flat stone in his hand. "It's warm," he said. He squinted at the flecks of light on its surface; they flickered in his eyes.

"It's to lift your spirits, keep them bright." She shifted. "I used up the charge already. I'm sorry about that. But tomorrow it will be back. And maybe it can help you, to remember. Magic's too important to ever go away. It will be alright." Her father had said so.

"Thank you." Tethtoril cleared his throat. His fingers curled 'round the disc, squeezed it tight. "Thank you, Sajantha." He nodded at her father, "Gorion."

Sajantha beamed, almost treading on Ulraunt's toes as she stepped back. The Keeper's mouth twisted into a grimace.

Still at her back, her father kept her from stumbling. Kept her from retreating. "I'm sorry, sir. My father and I—well, he can enchant another one—can't you?—if you'd like one yourself."

"What?" Ulraunt's eyebrows rose, then swooped back down, as if daring her to answer.

Sajantha took a breath. "The light-stone. You can have one, too." She twisted to look up at her father, but couldn't see past his gray beard. "I'm sure he could do that. If you like."

"If I...?" Ulraunt shook his head, once. "You think I care for trinkets? Have you no concept of this situation—of _reality_—at all? Play what games you will. I have greater concerns than enchanted rocks or uncalled-for parties right now." He waved her off.

Uncalled for! Sajantha's breath caught. "It's called for," she said. Called after him. "Keeper! The party was called for. I'm not sorry." She bit her lip. "Except for the blizzard."

Ulraunt paused, glancing at the snow outside before squinting his eyes at her. "That was your work? I might have known." A swish of dark robes, and he stalked off as fast as if those shadows still gave chase.

"Wow," said Imoen. "Can't believe you stood up to him like that. Don't think he quite believed it, either."

Sajantha sagged, letting out a breath. "I didn't even mean to. I just—I just wish I knew what could cheer _him_ up."

"Not everyone is willing to be cheered up, child."

Sajantha shook her father's hand from her head, tilting up to smile at him. "But isn't that when they need it most?"

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

_ Marpenoth 30, 1358 DR  
Year of Shadows_

"We really ought to learn him a lesson."

"What? No! He's the Keeper, Imoen. Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"He's a stuffed-up old huffpants, is what he is. Could use a good dressing-down. Besides, I got all this itching powder 'n no one to use it on." Its reassuring weight still hung from her belt; Imoen hadn't decided just who to use it on, yet. Figuring it out was always half the fun. Ulraunt sure could use some: sprinkle the rim of his teacup, maybe, and he'd snort it up his stupid big beak. Be sneezing for days.

Sajantha looked up, eyes still kind of red, like she'd gotten into the itching powder, too. Or maybe just a bit worse for wear after running into that ol' goat. "Where'd you even get something like that?" she asked.

"Found it."

Sajantha sniffled a bit of a laugh, wiped her nose. Not so red, now, with a smear of black across it. It gave Imoen an idea. "Karan's got you scribbling again, huh?"

"Scribing."

"Whatever. Think you could save me a bit of that ink when you're done?"

"I am done, or near enough. Here." Sajantha stoppered the inkwell with care. Imoen had just the spot for it in her pouch: by the powder, tucked right in. And just the plan for it, too.

"I wrote out your lessons for you," Sajantha said, straightening up some papers. "But you'll still have to copy them in your own hand."

"What!" That wouldn't work. Having that break from her studies while the gods ran amok had made for a bit of fun. Sure didn't take long for boring to set in once they got back to normal, though. Well. Mostly normal. "You promised me you'd take care of all this; I was counting on it. Puffguts' got me cleaning dishes again and I just don't got the time for it now. You, uh... hm. You got any spells for this, maybe?" Imoen pointed at the paper.

"Oh!" Sajantha's eyes shot open wide. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"'Cause you can't never see the truth plain in front of you, maybe," Imoen shrugged.

Sajantha wasn't listening. "Hm," she said, "an illusion spell, I think. Check the gold book over there—no, the tall one, there, on top of the stack. Yes! Here, I know I saw something..."

"Then don't look much like spells." Imoen watched the pages flying by, just blocks of text. The few magic scrolls she'd seen were all squiggles and scrapes. Though most of these books looked like chickens had scratched all over them. Enough to make your eyes blur. How could Sajantha stand staring at them all day?

"No," her friend said. "The spellbooks are all restricted to the upper floors. But there's still bits of magic here and there, if you know where to dig for it. Ah!" She beamed. "Forgery. It's a sort of illusory script."

"Can you cast it?" Sajantha's spells weren't so reliable all the time, even before the Godswar shook things up. "Can you even read that?" There were those squiggles, looking ready to wiggle right off the page.

"No, but there's some notes in the margin. They sound it out." Sajantha cleared her throat. _"Sia cha'sid ekess douta." _

Nothing. Imoen shifted, crossed her arms. "Do you need to be touching it, maybe? Or me?"

"No. It should work."

"Maybe it's just a bad translation."

"Maybe," said Sajantha, but she didn't look like she believed it. She frowned._"Sia cha'sid ekess douta."_

The writing hadn't changed, still in Sajantha's careful, even lettering. Looked like a bust. "Worth a try, I guess," Imoen said.

"Lunnz," Sajantha sighed. "Sazpel acuyreln yisel."

"Uh-huh. You're a real hoot."

"I falc'y ynzicw yu pel boccz."

"Yeah, yeah, cut the jibberish. Won't help me write this out any faster, will it?" She wouldn't have time to squeeze in any archery practice tonight, that was for sure.

"Mippelnilr? Fray anel zuo yahxicw apuoy!"

"I said, cut it out—it ain't funny."

Sajantha put her hand to her mouth, green eyes staring out wide above it. "Fray'l wuicw uc?" she whispered. "Zuo nelahhz vac'y relan sel?"

"I can't understand a word you're spouting. You done cast some spell on yourself, didn't you?" Okay, maybe it was a little funny.

"I titc'y selac yu!"

Imoen frowned at the scattered books. The evidence. Sajantha wasn't supposed to cast magic on her own. Wasn't supposed to do Imoen's lessons for her, either. She scratched her head. "We can't tell no one. Maybe just wait til it wears off. It'll wear off, right?"

"I... I ruqel lu." Sajantha's curls tumbled over her eyes as she slouched down.

"Can you imagine," Imoen poked her, "casting a spell like that on Ulraunt? He'd be spitting mad, he would. Shouting orders, and no one to jump for they couldn't know what he was hollering for. He'd just get hotter and hotter til steam shot out his ears."

Sajantha smiled a little bit.

Imoen took a seat beside her and picked up the pen. "I would ask you to explain this," she sighed, staring at the page she was supposed to have written, "but I bet it'd make the same amount of sense, either way."

"Boccz."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_ "Not so long ago, near Immersea, on a road well-traveled on,  
The moondark night left shadows lifted only by the dawn.  
Silence but for birds aloft, a whisper on the breeze,  
Til two travelers broke the quiet, marching through the trees._

_ Now, it comes these wizards were spinning schemes, as such sort are wont to do,  
Weaving deceit and discord with all that they pursue.  
But it happens a peddler happened on by—  
And spying those red cloaks, he knew enough to hide._

So he came to witness how their plot was to unfold,  
How they planned to catch Caladnei with this story that they told:  
In their hands a pendant, and on their tongues a lie,  
To be delivered to the war wizard so that she would die.

And from his nearby hollow, the witness witnessed out of sight;  
They left him with this knowledge, though they left him in a fright.  
For what might be done against such a powerful foe?  
He knew he must do something, though he knew not where to go.

_High and low he searched for aid, nearly missing how near he stood!  
Just around the corner, a farmhouse waited in the wood.  
'Tis the grace of gods to weave such strings of fate in every shining strand,  
For who should reside therein, but—"_

"Storm! Storm Silverhand."

"Do you know this story already, Sajantha?" Her father's gray brows lifted.

"I don't have to. It's Storm, right; she swoops in and saves the day, and teaches those wizards a lesson. The end."

"'The end' waits 'til the curtain drops—" Afternoon light framed her father as he tipped his head towards her, a glint catching in his eye. "And so, too, should the audience."

Imoen's giggle earned the same mock-stern look as he cleared his throat. "So the peddler took his tale to the Lady of the Dale—and what proof did he need, for so evil a deed? Red was their color, the name on their cloak: Red Wizards of Thay; they could be no other folk."

"Ooh!" Imoen shivered, bumping into Sajantha's shoulder. "I knew it!"

"But at her disposal was more than mere magic: Storm had a plan to forestall this outcome most tragic. With the love of friends and neighbors both, she knew just who to summon, who to send forth."

"What? She didn't go after them herself?"

"She sent word to Caladnei through her true friend and true heart—Rhoegantle Malyth—who did not wait to depart."

"Did he make it in time to warn her?"

"On wings of wind he flew, hastened by his honor, and his love for her, too. For feet spurred by love will ever be hasted, and at such times, evil's efforts will ever be wasted."

"Huh. Just what do ya think that amulet might've done, if they hadn't warned her?" said Imoen, leaning forward.

Sajantha tapped her chin. "What would they even need it for, anyhow? If they got that close—close enough to give her a pendant—why not just poison her, or kill her? Two of them against one."

His tale told, her father's bearing returned to normal. He leaned forward on his chair, hands clasped together over his knees. "Those wizards' ways are more wily yet, I fear. They've tricks enough to avoid blame, and Caladnei was not alone, mind."

"Maybe _it_ was poisoned. Or they set some dark enchantment upon it—a curse! Or something that couldn't be detected at all."

"Perhaps. The Harpers thought it might draw some evil to her location, or was simply a tracking spell to allow the same."

"Like a summoning beacon?"

"No doubt their aim was suchlike. I could not say. I was not given a mind so devious as a Red Wizard's."

"Nah, if she's a war wizard, she could handle anything it summoned," Imoen said.

"Even a wizard may be caught off-guard."

"Aye; better it be something quick, then, like poison: not something she's a chance to react to. Oh!" Sajantha clapped her hands together. "I bet it was a trapped spell—a trigger. It should have been. That's less chance for it to awry."

Imoen had been working at traps, her quick fingers maneuvering tiny pieces that Sajantha almost couldn't see. How simple to place a spell trigger in one, instead? Something that wouldn't depend on aught else to get the job done: something quick and efficient. "They're Red Wizards, right? They must know all kinds of nasty spells."

Her father sat back with a sigh. "More than precocious children, even." He shook his head, pausing to give her a look. A Capital Look. She shifted. "Tell me Sajantha, why did I share this story with you? Not to ruminate on the evils of Red Wizards, surely."

A warning of some kind, though. "The evils of... magic?" No, for the target was a mage, as well.

He said nothing. Not wrong, maybe, but not right, either. Father wouldn't say that, though. Magic couldn't be evil. Not the glory of Mystra's Weave, however darkened Shar's own shadowed replication. It could be used for bad things, certainly. But so could almost anything. Like Imoen using the ink dyes to turn Dreppin's teeth black.

"There's a lesson," Sajantha ventured. He would tell her what it was, if she couldn't guess it. But she must guess it. No: she musn't guess. She ought to _know_. And mightn't it just have something to do with yesterday? She looked down.

"Who was the hero?" he prompted.

"Storm Silverhand. She's the Hero of Shadowdale—everyone knows that!"

"In this story," her father said, voice deliberate as if to slow her thoughts, "who is the hero?"

Sajantha fell silent. "Storm didn't do nothing in this story," Imoen reminded her.

"The knight, then. Swift and brave. He raced and stopped the pendant." Her father said nothing. But she could tell that wasn't it, either.

"There are heroes, great and small. There would be no quest at all, were it not for the message. And who bore the message?"

"The peddler!" Imoen crowed. "I get it, Mister G."

Sajantha frowned. "But—why, why not Storm? So she just said, no, thanks; I'm done being a hero? Even when people still needed saving? She just wanted to hole up in her little farm? That's not fair."

"The Harpers are a network, Sajantha, because ofttimes a task is too large for a single soul. Nor should any one be left to bear the brunt of it. There were those that could serve, and so did she delegate."

"So she just stopped doing everything once she could get people to do it for her?"

Imoen grinned. "Sounds good to me."

"Sounds _lazy._"

Her father sat back. "Would a hero not be allowed a reprieve? How many great feats must she perform before she deserves a chance to rest?"

"Rest on her laurels, you mean."

Imoen bobbed her head. "Why would she _want_ to? That sounds boring."

"An uneventful life is not the punishment you take it for. Surprises seldom grow more welcome as one grows older."

Surprises like miscast magic, perhaps? That excitement hadn't been welcome, certainly. And Father only told tales that had a lesson tied in. The message in this one, then... "This is about yesterday, isn't it?" And it wasn't the spell, but that she had kept it from him—and he still knew—he still _knew_. Her father knew everything. Sajantha rubbed her eyes.

His voice murmured, gentle, "When you have a problem, do not keep it to yourself."

Sajantha sniffled. "So it would have been heroic for me to run and find someone else to fix it? Instead of trying to do it myself?"

"Heroes are strong, they are brave—and, if they are smart—they know, too, when to ask for help."

"But, the peddler? He wasn't a hero. He was just a... a _peddler._"

"Yet no quest would have been accomplished without him. And had the Wizards' plan not been thwarted, it could easily have ended in a death."

"It's a silly story," said Sajantha.

"I get it," said Imoen. "Ain't no role too small for a hero."

"The real heroes are oft found behind the scenes," he nodded. "No one may ever know what parts they play—yet oftentimes success hinges upon them. Even they may not always be aware of their pivotal role."

"Can I be a Harper, Father? That's who you mean, isn't it? Behind the scenes?"

Imoen stuck out her tongue. "You need too much attention to be a Harper. They do their work all silently, and you've just got to be center stage."

"That's not true; I'm good at being quiet! I could be a Harper, couldn't I? Father?"

"You've the heart for it, it's true. As for the discipline... time will tell. If you wish it enough, Sajantha, you could be anything you choose."

"How about the Bard of Shadowdale? Can I be her? Everybody loves her."

"I fear that role is held by another. But there is no shortage of openings for heroes, my dear."

"Oh, right," Imoen snorted. "'Cause everyone don't love you already."

Sajantha looked down. "Not hardly everyone, Imoen." She picked at the hemming of her skirt. "Ulraunt sure doesn't." The Keeper couldn't even look at her without a glare sharpening his narrow face, piercing fierce as his eyes. "He hates me. And what for?" That was the worst part, that she didn't even know. "What did I ever do to him?"

Imoen shrugged. "Reckon that hawksnarl hates everyone. Doesn't never smile about anything, does he? Don't take it to heart."

"As if a heart's something you can just turn off!"

"Dunno. Seems he managed it just fine."


	2. Chapter 2

_Mirtul 17, 1359 DR  
Year of the Serpent_

The first three times Sajantha spoke the words to a light spell, nothing happened. The fourth time, all the candles went out in the room, except the one at her table. The fifth time, she was sure the Keeper of the Tomes would explode just like every pane of glass in the second-story windows had.

Ulraunt glowered at Sajantha across his desk. At last allowed in the upper floors, and here she was, shut in the Keeper's office with only the man himself and a very real sense of displeasure. Disappointment. Disgust.

Disquiet.

It filled the room between the two of them, a suffocating sense that left no space to breathe. The air hung so thick it kept her mired in place, kept her breathing shallow.It made the silence even more uncomfortable, though Ulraunt could have done that all his own.

_Itmen mitne, _Sajantha thought as she squirmed in the too-large chair, wondering what would happen if she again spoke the verbal components to her spell: if the man would pound his clenched fist against the table and send sparks flying with his anger. She stared down at her hands. If she met his burning gaze, it might leave her as ash.

"Sajantha," the Keeper spoke, and his voice was full of disapproval. Disdain. Dislike. She made the mistake of looking up, then, and her heart stopped. Maybe her name was a spell the mage had struck her dead with. If she were dead, she wouldn't have to answer. Right? Her mouth was dry.

Nothing could leave her lips at all: not breath, not sound. Her words weren't working right, anyway. Mightn't they make this even worse? As if it were her voice—some part of her very _self_—that had chosen to betray her. Not the spell. _Itmen mitne._ So simple! How could it have gone so wrong?

Tethtoril entered the room then, displacing some of the room's animosity as he gifted her with a familiar smile. The smile she had to offer in return was a weak thing, weak as the butterflies a-flutter in her stomach. Her hands wrung together beneath the desk.

In the First Reader's wake walked the one she had been waiting for. He drove out all the apprehension in the room by himself. Sajantha did not have to turn to recognize her father; she felt his calm crest over her, stronger than any spell. The butterflies stilled. "What is the meaning of this?" Her father's voice was soft and firm in equal measure, as gentle and bolstering as the hand that came to rest upon her shoulder.

"Wild magic," Ulraunt answered, but the way he ground out the words with his teeth on edge made it sound like a sentencing. The blaze in the Keeper's eyes did not alter as he switched his gaze: he wore the same wrathful look as he turned towards the other man.

As if her father might be in trouble, too.

"I'm sorry," Sajantha whispered, moved at last to speak. The rush of magic that had flooded her didn't seem so wondrous now. It felt sick. It felt heavy. It filled her up to leak out her eyes, a little storm raining inside her.

"It is clear we cannot trust you," Ulraunt said, amending through his clenched teeth with much begrudging: "...Your _magic_."

Words rushed to her defense, clamoring up inside—but in their haste collided, catching in her throat. "It wasn't my fault—" Sajantha began, but that sounded too much like an excuse. She shot her father a pleading look. However important it was that they believe her, it only mattered that her father did. He had to. "I don't know how it happened," she said, just to him. "I don't." His hand squeezed her shoulder.

Sajantha took in a deep breath and faced the two older men. "I did it right." Every syllable, every motion—she had studied that spell for days. _Ten_days! "I did it perfect! There's no reason..." She gestured, clenching tight the fingers that had betrayed her. "It should have worked. I don't... It just doesn't make any sense." It didn't, not when for a single moment the magic had filled her with so much purpose, promise. How had she lost the hold on it?

"That is the nature of chaos," Ulraunt said, intoning his words with a fateful weight like one of the verses the Speakers chanted in the courtyard below.

"But I didn't do anything _wrong_."

"The windows tell a different story." Ulraunt didn't sneer, but he didn't have to. His dry despite was far more jarring.

"Perhaps the wards reacted with her spell in some way to cause this," her father offered.

"We both know that's not what happened. That this is not the first time. The Godswar is ended, Gorion, the Weave stabilized. You cannot blame her lack of control on it any longer."

The speed with which Ulraunt returned his attention to Sajantha and the force of the (distaste distrust disgust) glare he leveled at her pushed her back against the chair. "Sajantha." The butterflies in her stomach burst into flight. Into flame. "So long as you remain in Candlekeep, you submit to its rules. And you will not cast magic again within its walls."

Sajantha swallowed, and none of the butterflies made it out. Her voice almost didn't, either. "You mean, not—not ever?" Her gaze darted around to the men so somber and silent around her. "But I'll get it right, before all the gods, I will—it won't happen again!" Not _ever?_

"No," said Ulraunt, the word sharp and pointed enough to cut right through any objection. "It won't."

"It is simply too dangerous," Tethtoril murmured. His voice was not without sympathy. "Not only for you."

"I—" Sajantha's gaze reached her father, met his grave, gray eyes. "I understand."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_ Alturiak 25, 1360 DR  
Year of the Turret_

Visitors often commented on the silence of the keep. Peaceful, yes. The kind of quiet that could carry you away when you closed your eyes. But silent? They just weren't listening. A song hummed even beneath the stillness of the library: the sound of each page carefully turned, of shuffling feet and swishing robes and whispers. An errant cough, muffled. The monks knew how to be quiet; they studied it with the same respect they handled the tomes. Their quiet filled the air, swept through every soaring arch of the library: their reverence given sound. A hush.

And something tugged at it, a not-quite-sound to disrupt the not-quite-silence. No rustling robes, no shy shuffle. No monk.

"Imoen."

A breath hissed out, disappointed: "How'd you know?"

Some people filled a room with more than just their body. Sajantha's father was like a warm blanket, maybe: all soft and cozy and reassuring—and kind of scratchy, like his whiskers—so maybe a woolen blanket, then. When he entered a room, his warmth draped all around it and everyone within felt it, felt safe.

Imoen's presence, though, it burst through like sunshine to fill these dim halls. A little chirruping bird, she brought in all the warmth and noise of the outdoors, and whenever she came into the library, she hopped around all aflutter like she longed to be outside again.

Easy to tell, easy as breathing. "I've got good hearing," Sajantha said, instead.

"Got big ears, you mean."

Sajantha felt them heat, little darts of warmth flaring all the way to their ends. Hidden beneath a tangle of thick curls, she could almost pretend they weren't there. Weren't different. Half-elf—well, quarter-elf, morelike; her mother hadn't been a full elf, either.

She rubbed at her ears. Still pointed enough to set her apart. Still short enough she could hide them. "Or maybe you're not as quiet as you think you are."

"Winthrop sure didn't hear me sneak out back." Imoen grinned as she tossed her brown hair back. Straight and uncomplicated, it tumbled past her chin. "So's I got the afternoon free, or the next hour afore he misses me. Thought we could maybe play a game."

"I'm busy, Imoen." And Sajantha had been, before her mind had wandered off. Karan had left her with some passages to practice scribing. He might have left her something more interesting to copy, though. Not all the library's books were worth the thousand-gold entrance fee; the Keeper of the Portals accepted most original works, as well. It resulted in a considerable pile of obscure and most often irrelevant journals, all with rather disreputable handwriting. And how much faster might such a task be completed with a simple spell or two...

"Here," Imoen said, pulling out a chair. "It'll only take a minute. Been thinking about this a bit, I have." Paper crinkled under her as she sat down, and Sajantha winced. "Right, then." Imoen leaned forward. "How many of my coins I got here in this pocket?"

"None." Sajantha glanced back down at her mess of papers and held in a sigh. "If you do have any, they're not yours."

Imoen's puff of breath sent her bangs flying. "Alright. Okay, that was an easy one." She hid her hands behind her, squared her shoulders. "How about: how many fingers am I holding up?"

Sajantha eyed her. "Now, that's just rude, Imoen."

"How did you know that!" Imoen threw her hands up in the air, losing the obscene gesture.

"Because I know _you._ There's no magic to it."

"The hells there isn't!" Imoen's energy always bubbled up so close beneath the surface when she got excited, and she never seemed to mind what it splashed. Sajantha pushed the papers a safer distance away. "You've got some magic; I just know it. How'd ya know Jondalar was gonna end up in the infirmary the other day?"

"That's called listening, Imoen. Sitting quiet and observing. You should try it."

Imoen grabbed the table as she leaned forward. "I know—I know! Ain't no shortage of strangers through here. We'll just get one of them visitors to stand in, try this on them. Can't call it guessing, not when you're right more than the odds would allow. It's magic, Sajantha; I know it is."

Sajantha bit her lip. "I'm not supposed to cast magic."

"I don't know you can call it casting if just leaks out your ears. But it sure is magic, Sajantha. It's something."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"That one, there." Imoen nodded to the fellow sipping at his tankard near the window. "With the scowl and the fuzzy pate. Looks like a bugbear." Didn't hardly need specifics when only a half-dozen folks filled the inn, though; few trekked out to Candlekeep during the winter.

"Five."

"You'd think so, huh?"

"Four?" Sajantha chewed on the answer a bit before spitting it out. "No: five."

Imoen spread her fingers. Slim pickings, tonight; she'd waited til after he'd paid. "Four. Three silver, a copper. And a button." Less chance of being caught once they settled the bill, but even less coin left by then. Must be some lordling's hire; stout fellow like him didn't look to be much of a scholar.

Sajantha poked the button. "Does that count for anything?"

"No idea." Imoen shoved them all back into her pocket. "Guess we ain't never going to figure out how your magic works that way."

"I told you, it's not magic." Sajantha looked away, propping up her chin. "Your turn. The polished apple."

And there he stood, by the fire: round, red-faced and sweating. Easy. "He's trying to impress a woman back in Baldur's Gate. A grand _duchess_."

"That's awfully specific."

Imoen shrugged. "He shouldn't be wasting his time writing sappy love letters. Better to buckle down in the tenday he's got and get his coin's worth." Who journeyed to the greatest library in the Realms to lounge about and drink ales, anyway? That was for the locals, and they didn't need no visitors getting underfoot.

"And your legwork has a leg up on my guesswork. Digging up evidence is against the rules."

"Hey, I've got to establish some footing to hone my instincts on, don't I?"

Sajantha's hand tried to cover up her smile. "You used that excuse already. On the couple last month."

"And I was right! Not even twenty silver between them. Must've spent it all on their entry fee." Imoen shook her head. "Dunno why Winthrop didn't kick 'em right out; if he ran this inn straight as Ulraunt ran the tower, they'da been out of here faster 'n a gnome on turnip day."

"Imoen!" And there came ol' Puffguts himself from behind the bar, wringing out a washtowel like he wished it were her neck. He looked about to snap it in her direction. "Where's that Blackale at? Didn't I ask ye to pull it from the cellar yesterday?"

"Uh, about that..."

"Oh! Oh, Winthrop, I'm sorry!" Sajantha shot to her feet a lot faster. "It's all my fault. I needed Imoen's help with something, and it took a lot longer than I thought." She gave him one of her looks, a sugary sweet one folk lapped right up. "I'm so sorry! I never meant to keep her from her chores."

Winthrop rubbed his neck. "Oh, well. No harm done, after all." He cleared his throat, took a halfhearted swipe at the counter. "Just so as it don't happen again."

"We'll get your ale right now," she promised, glancing back at Imoen with eyebrows pointed up. Not half as sweet—a little warning to them, now—but her green eyes just as earnest. "Won't we, Imoen?"

Wasn't no use arguing with her. And definitely not the both of them. Imoen hopped down from the chair. "We're on it, boss."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Thanks for the save back there," Imoen said as they headed back upstairs. "Moving them barrels is tired work." She hopped the stairs two at a time as if in denial. Defiance.

Sajantha shook her head. "Why don't you just do your chores like you're supposed to?"

"Why?" Imoen flopped down onto her bed, kicked off her shoes. "Why should I bother? Don't tell me there aren't things you'd rather be doing than scribbling some old dead guys' notes."

"That's not—hey!" A bit of silver glinted free of Imoen's pocket as she stretched out, much thicker than most of the tiny wires and springs she'd been collecting of late. "What's that?" This time, Sajantha's curiosity was not rebuffed—Imoen did not protectively clutch this finding to her chest—instead, she whipped it out with a flourish.

"This? A flute, I think. One of the guests must've forgot it." She shrugged, trying so hard not to smile, but bristling with such satisfaction that the grin sparkled out from her eyes.

"'Forgot it', huh? Does Winthrop know?"

"Right, yeah. That old muffin-yomper?" The instrument glinted as she spun it. "Well, not like it's solid gold or something. Could be worth a few silver, I guess." She positioned the flute in front of her lips, wiggling on the bed as if to brace herself.

"Do you even know how to play?"

Imoen snorted, a rush of air flying free in a burst of sound, a musical note that spiraled downward, flat. She lowered it to her lap with a huff. "You could do better, huh? I bet you've read all about it, haven't you."

Sajantha's ear-tips burned. The books she'd read on magic hadn't helped her there, either, had they?

"I keep telling you, books aren't everything," Imoen said in a sing-song voice, a far more convincing musical attempt.

The cold metal poked Sajantha in the arm. Once. Twice. She snatched it from Imoen's hands on the third attempt, pulled the flute to her own lips. The note sounded harsh, angry; it pierced through her ears, left them ringing.

Imoen stared, wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing as she reached for her throat. She fell back onto the bed.

"Imoen!"

Collapsed—with tears in her eyes—but Imoen was laughing. Silently.

"You—you—" Gasping, Imoen sat up at last. "Gimme that." She grabbed the flute, blew a jumpy note again. Waggled her eyebrows, waiting.

_"What...?"_

"It was you!" Imoen crowed, shoving the flute back into her arms. "Do it again."

Sajantha took the instrument with a hesitance she heard in the wavering note that issued forth. Evidently not whatever Imoen had been expecting; the other girl squinted.

"Huh." Imoen scratched her head. "Took my voice right away, that first time."

"I think you're just pulling my leg."

"Nah," said Imoen, lowering her shoulders. "I wouldn't do that to you. Not about this, anyway." She nodded. "I'll figure it out, though. We'll figure it out." She blew a single note, sharp and fast, right into Sajantha's ear.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_Eleint 22, 1361 DR  
Year of the Maidens_

_Sajantha, the darling of Candlekeep, was hard at work uncovering wh__at secrets the abbey's legendary library had to offer. Both determined and dauntless in her pursuit to access the restricted upper floors, at fifteen years old she was finally trusted enough to achieve admittance. The once off-limit tomes were sure to provide the bright and bold young beauty with many more years of study._

"You gonna narrate everything you do like that? 'Bold 'n bright?'" Sajantha heard a snort. "_Bragging's_ all I hear. You still aiming to be a spellcaster, ain'tcha? They are supposed to be beautiful, sure enough. Guess there's some might find such a great big head attractive, but you may want to scale it back some."

A sigh escaped Sajantha to rustle the page below her. She frowned a little bit. "Patient. Enduring." She needed a new adjective. "Long-suffering."

"Long-winded."

"Only, something that starts with a 'B'..." Sajantha tapped two fingers against her chin.

"_Boring_."

Chair scraping on the polished wooden floor, Sajantha turned around at last. Imoen really did look bored as she leaned against a nearby desk. Her friend had best not lean too hard; Parda would be quite offended if he returned to find his research mussed.

"That stack of books ain't getting no smaller," the other girl pointed out. "What'd you say the other day?" Imoen affected a near-falsetto, a shrilling trill: "'Soon as I'm done sifting through piles of dust, why, I'll have time for some actual fun; I _promise_.'"

Sajantha frowned. She hadn't said that, had she? She certainly wouldn't have said it like that. Nor sounded like that. And besides, "That was before they allowed me upstairs, Imoen. Up_stairs!_" Although necessity had bid it beneath the watchful eye of Tethtoril and Ulraunt, the latter of whom spent the entire time acting unnecessarily pained. But even the Keeper's glowering had not been enough to diminish her delight. "Do you know how many more books are up there? And so many of them originals!"

"Bet these aren't any such." Imoen gave the piled books a poke.

"Well, no," Sajantha admitted, tamping down the urge she felt to protect them just the same. "I couldn't take any back down with me. I'm just working at some cross-referencing. Do you have any idea just how many languages use the Draconic alphabet? I mean, not just the Draconic ones, obviously, but some Elemental ones, too. And Halruaan—ancient Netherese. Even the Shou of Kara-Tur use Draconic script."

Imoen yawned. "You trying so hard to put me to sleep? I came up here all excited and I've done forgotten why."

"But this _is_ exciting!" How could Imoen say she never had time for fun? "There's even real spellbooks up there. From magisters and archmages and even a Red Wizard or two, most of them written in some form of Draconic. And that's just the fifth floor!" Eventually she would make her way higher. She just had to keep working at Ulraunt; he had to thaw towards her sometime. Didn't he?

"Huh!" Imoen did not look at all impressed. "Don't know why you waited this long to get permission, you being so _bold_ and all. I've been poking 'bout them upper floors for years. Not as much up there as you'd think, though the First has sure got some interesting things collected in his office. Oh!" Imoen began to rummage through a small pack at her side. "That reminds me..." It took a moment to sort through the invariably odd assortment of things she had accumulated, but she straightened at last, brandishing a scroll. "Found this for you."

A magical scroll. Sajantha did not need the excitement stirring in her stomach to identify it; just as quickly did she tamp it down. "Imoen!" Sajantha looked around. Lowered her voice. "You know I'm not supposed to."

"Who's to know?" Imoen smoothed out the paper and gave a little shrug. "Grumble all you like; I know you're up for it." She dangled the page above Sajantha, waving it back and forth as if trying to tempt a cat into pouncing. Sajantha found herself moved to snatch it from the air simply to avoid getting dizzy.

With the scroll secure in her hands, Sajantha was afforded a closer look—and at last able to identify it, Sajantha nearly dropped it, nearly gasped. "You—you know what this is?"

"Sure I do! And by that look on your face, so do you. How 'bout it?"

Sajantha hurried to put on a frown, unsure what her face had given away. "It's too dangerous." She let the paper drift down, soft against the table. "This kind of thing... it could take weeks to properly cast. And they'd catch me for sure."

"We'll say you're sick. Lock you up in your room. I can make sure you're not interrupted or nothing."

Sajantha couldn't tear her eyes from the page. "It's really an advanced spell. It'll take a lot of time just to decipher." She bit her lip.

"What've you got to lose in the trying?"

Sajantha snorted and forced her gaze back to Imoen. "My mind? Those divination spells are tricky even when you know what you're doing! And this one is quite intensive." She only recognized a handful of symbols; the only thing clear was that it was well beyond her ability.

"Yeah? Smart spellcaster like you oughta have no problem."

"Ha. Talking me up all of a sudden? Thanks, Imoen, but... I really shouldn't. Maybe once I've discovered how to control my magic better." If such a time should ever come—if such a thing were even possible. 'Wild' magic, she had heard them say, but that was not the sort of thing a careful, conscientious child within these hallowed halls of knowledge should take a chance to chase.

Imoen scratched her head. "Want I should put it back, then? Guess as someone might miss it, sooner or later."

"That would probably be best." But it had been a nice thought. "Thanks, though."

"Well, it wasn't just for you, not quite." Imoen placed the scroll back into her pack, not yet looking up from it. "I... I thought we could try and magic out who my true parents were, somehow; maybe find if we two had some branches crossin' in the old family tree." She grinned. "Not that it's likely with that elvish blood in ya, but I always kinda wondered, just the same."

And the restless melancholy that pulled at the edge of Imoen's smile Sajantha felt tugging at her own self. How could she say no, now? Aware of the spell's significance, Sajantha wanted to reach right back for the divination scroll. But the risks still remained—and, equally aware of them, she reached out for Imoen instead. "We were raised side-by-side," she said, squeezing her friend's hand. "I've known you my whole life, or near enough. I never felt like I needed any blood to justify it. I've always thought of you as a sister."

"Aww!" Imoen leaned over, bumping her chin on top of Sajantha's head as she maneuvered them into a half-embrace. "And that's why you're the silver-tongued one of us. Ain't no one's escaping free of your charms." They pulled apart, so Sajantha had a clear view of Imoen sticking out her own tongue. "_Darling,_" the younger girl added with a snicker.


	3. Chapter 3

_Tarsakh 9, 1362 DR  
Year of the Helm _

"You ought to learn some magic," Sajantha said. "I'm sure you'd take to it quick enough, if you'd just give it a try."

Imoen didn't miss the longing look in her friend's eye, but it was a tune the girl had been singing for a long while now. "Don't want all your studying to go to waste, you mean."

Sajantha drew back, inhaling sharply. Her book landed on the desk, loud enough to stir some heads. Her hands fumbled after it. "That's not it. No. That's not what I meant."

But it was near enough. Imoen could see how much it grated on her, studying all them scrolls days in and out and not allowed to try a single one. Even if Ulraunt hadn't forbidden her, all the defenses around the Keep meant there was little magic in the air but the wards that kept it clear.

They didn't stop encouraging her to read, though, and so she did—so long and often that Imoen thought spells should be flying from her nose by now. But whatever she was aiming to learn, Sajantha hadn't landed on, not yet: how to control that power, so that she didn't screw up.

And how could she screw up, when she'd just stopped trying?

Still trying to please everyone, though. Always stepping so polite around everyone else. _Imoen_ could get her into arguments, get that sweet girl all riled up if she wanted. She didn't, not usually, but quiet, complacent Sajantha wasn't near as fun. About as much fun as a Sajantha with her head stuck in a book.

The perfect time to tell her friend of her idea. "So I been thinking," Imoen began, and the bookworm's face went so quickly blank it was as good as buried betwixt those pages again.

"Not interested," Sajantha said, and her voice snuck out kind of muffled like it didn't want to be there.

All the more fun; Imoen hadn't expected this to be easy. "It's a good one; I promise. You'll like it."

"I'm awful busy." The book came up, then, tipping flat so all Imoen could see was a pair of wary eyes peeking above it. "Maybe later."

"Suit yourself," said Imoen, but she didn't move. Well, most of her didn't move. Her fingers started drumming up against the wooden tabletop. Should she whistle, too, or would that overdo it? She pursed her lips.

Sajantha didn't even put up with it for two breaths before thunking the tome to the table with a sigh just as heavy. "Alright. Alright! What's this idea of yours?"

"Well! They've all told you of no practicin' magic _inside_ the Keep," Imoen began, trying to sound all intriguing. She wished she had Sajantha's talent for weaving words and mystery; the other girl didn't look at all intrigued. She still looked a bit cross, actually, what with that line creasing her brow.

"We can't leave Candlekeep, either," Sajantha pointed out. Imoen just smiled, wondering if her seed of intrigue was strong enough to sprout without watering. Sure enough, after a moment Sajantha shifted, wiggling like there were little ants nipping at her behind. Satisfaction threatened to stretch Imoen's smile even wider.

Sajantha noticed, if her glare admitted anything. "Okay, fine—then what? What's this great idea, Imoen? Just spit it out."

Imoen let her squirm a moment longer before explaining. It didn't take long; the plan was quite elegant in its simplicity. So brilliant, it left Sajantha with an open-mouthed stare. "Are you _mad?" _the other girl exclaimed. "You are, aren't you! Do you know how much trouble we'd get in?"

Figured that would worry her friend more than anything else. Imoen shrugged; _she_ was pretty good at wriggling free of trouble when it came after her. 'Course that was usually carried on Winthrop's slow plodding feet, but even still. "Under Candlekeep ain't in it—nor out of it; it's not breaking any rules."

"We're not supposed to go down there. No one is."

"Somebody say that to you plain?"

Sajantha wavered the slightest bit. "Tethtoril did. He told me it was dangerous."

"Now, Sajantha, think clearly: he ever say 'Don't go down there' the same way they say you can't go upstairs? Ward you out like with the inner circle? No one spelled it out as such; I bet you anything."

"It was implied!" Sajantha protested. "That's why they keep it all locked up." But not warded. Imoen couldn't get around any magical locks, though she had a few tricks up her sleeve for the rest.

Sajantha still looked upset, but a lot of it was posturing. Imoen could tell. "Sajantha. Do you wanna practice your magic, or don't ya?" The other girl bit down on her lip and said nothing. "How are you ever gonna learn it if you can't even try?"

The little line on her friend's brow wasn't near as deep; it looked more concerned than anything. Maybe even intrigued? "I... how would we even get down there?"

Imoen tamped down her urge to gloat. Sajantha had come around even faster than she had hoped! "You let me worry about that. Bring some gear—cloak 'n dagger, yeah?" She grinned. "We'll make a proper adventure of it."

Sajantha opened her mouth to reply, then ducked her head. Her curly hair bobbed down to cover her eyes, but not before Imoen caught the glimmer in them. "I can't. I'm sorry, Imoen, but it's—it's just too dangerous. My father..." She shook her head. "I can't."

Imoen stood, waited til Sajantha was looking at her again. She hadn't wanted to pull out the big bolts; she really hadn't. "Suit yourself!" she said. "I'm still going. You won't join me, well, you sure can't stop me. I'll be down there all by myself. It's so dangerous, that'll be on your own head, won't it. Who knows what could happen? Leavin' me to wander—"

Sajantha shot up, her eyes flashing. Wasn't sadness in them now, not a trace of it. "Ilmater's patience, Imoen! You really have to do it like this?"

"Seems that way!" Imoen shot back. "Can't have much of an adventure all by myself, can I?"

She only let herself feel a little guilty as she watched the struggle on her friend's face. Whatever scheme Imoen pulled her into, however it turned out—Sajantha would always forgive her. That's what friends were for. And as her best friend, Imoen sometimes knew what was best for her, even when the other girl didn't. That magic was a part of her, and she couldn't keep it bottled up, not forever.

Someday, she'd see that.

It took near on an eve to get everything together. To string together some lies—S_tories_, Sajantha insisted, and had set to the task with an enthusiasm she normally hoarded for her lessons.

Imoen knew she wouldn't stay mad. That the other girl just _couldn't, _not when the promise of magic was mentioned; it was so obvious, the way her eyes lit up. Imoen could probably have talked her into a jaunt right off the Planes, if that's what it took.

And true to form, Sajantha had woven them up a tale so complex and convoluted, they'd be back well before it had a chance to be untangled. Imoen wasn't clear on it all, but was quite assured Sajantha had thought out all the details. Except maybe one.

"What about Gorion?"

Sajantha's mouth got a little tight, her eyes a little wide. "What about him?" She turned that oh-too-innocent look on Imoen, who didn't buy it.

"What kind of fancy-tale you got spun up for him?" Sajantha's father had a tendency to pop up without warning, jumping into plots just before they got juicy; he had ruined more than one of hers. Came of being a Harper, Imoen supposed.

Sajantha looked defensive, so uncomfortable, that Imoen wanted to shrug it off right there, _never mind_, but when the other girl lowered her eyes, the urge faded.

"He's... I'm not going to lie to him. I was going to tell the truth."

Imoen almost couldn't believe her; it took a moment to cough out all her incredulity. "Whyn't you just ask him along then, you think he'll be so fine with it?" He wouldn't be. Silly girl! And if they were ever flat-out forbidden from going down there, why, even Imoen wouldn't be able to dare it. Secrecy was the only defense they had. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

Sajantha got a look in her eye, more stubborn than the tilt of her chin jutting out. "I won't lie to him."

Imoen crossed her arms. "You serious, Sajantha? You speaking true? You're really gonna blow it all, now, huh; gonna give away the game?"

"I didn't say that! I just—"

"Just gonna tell on me? Get them to lock that door up tight forever? They'll probably throw my arse in the holding cells til Greengrass, is that what you want?"

"No! No, of course not." Sajantha seemed a little unsettled. "But they wouldn't do that."

Bullying didn't sit well with her, not at all, but Imoen kept her arms folded, kept glaring a moment longer. Sajantha looked away. "If he asks, I'm not going to lie."

Sajantha would be the perfect partner-in-crime, if it weren't for Gorion. "You can tell him all about it when we're through. 'Kay?"

"You bet I will."

"'Course, he'd be awful disappointed in you sneakin' around behind his back, keeping secrets from him."

Imoen worried for a moment she'd pushed it too far. Sajantha looked a little sick.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Don't you think we've gone far enough?" Sajantha asked. Each step took them ever-deeper down the twisting halls. Her voice bounced around the sweeping stone walls, coming 'round to echo behind her. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, knowing a turn or two had taken the exit out of sight.

Imoen threw her a careless grin. "I said 'adventure', didn't I? You can't expect to find one just outside your back door." But who might have expected what hid behind that door—could they have guessed just how vast the underhalls stretched? As high as the keep's many towers climbed upwards, the pillared caverns beneath seemed to dig downward in a bizarre reflection of dark disrepair.

The torch in Imoen's hands sent lights dancing around them in time to her step, but something else flickered at the edges of Sajantha's vision. Loose tiles scraped and crumbled under her feet as she quickened her pace to reach Imoen's side.

The girl whirled at her sudden approach, her torch swinging very near Sajantha's head. "Oh!" Imoen said, and Sajantha met a breathless face that revealed her friend was not nearly so calm as she claimed.

Maybe it would be easier to convince her to stay. "Let's stop here," Sajantha suggested. "I can't exactly study any scrolls walking about, now, can I?"

"You studied them long enough already, I thought!" But Imoen came to a stop. "What you need is to put 'em to practice."

"Right." The anticipation was enough to forgo any second thoughts. The mere brush of fingers on the magical parchment sent a thrill coursing through her that dwindled to a tingle on her fingertips. She smoothed out the edges of the scroll with care as she withdrew it.

_ Miirik ihk iski vaerir. _The intonation was like a melody itself, the words no less so: _a song for stars to dance to_. _Miirik ihk iski vaerir. Miirik ihk iski vaerir. _Again, and again, inside her head, this spell she had so long spoken only to herself, whispers she had woven in the dark. But no amount of practice would count without the proper motions accompanying it.She closed her eyes and gave into the magic, let it merge with memory to guide her hands._"Miirik ihk iski vaerir."_

Imoen coughed.

Sajantha opened her eyes to see the scene same as she had left it. The only dancing light was the reflection glimmering in Imoen's eye, shining out her amusement. "Looks like we'll be down here for awhile," she said.

"I can do it," Sajantha insisted. "I know what I'm doing." She had chosen that spell alone to concentrate on, knowing her chances at success would be greater for her focus. She had been certain. She had brought the scroll as well—just in case her memorization proved lacking—but it could not explain her failure. "I know I got it right."

The torch-fire sent out defiant sparks as Imoen leaned against the wall. "You know why it ain't working, then?" she asked, stretching out her feet.

Sajantha didn't. It didn't make sense._"Miirik ihk iski vaerir!" _Sajantha hissed in answer, glaring at the torch. The fire seemed to respond to her impatience and surged, spilling out a second shower of sparks.

"Yikes!" Imoen pushed the torch away—held it out as far as she could—but the panicked thrust set it free from her hands altogether. The orientation of the room's lighting reversed so suddenly that for a moment Sajantha felt as though she had been thrown as well, upside-down; the fire stared up at her from the floor.

And then Sajantha could better see the source of her friend's alarm. The sparks the torch had sent out were large—and growing larger. They floated up slowly, twisting and winding as they writhed through the air. As they_ danced._

"I did it," Sajantha whispered, grinning at Imoen. She folded the scroll away, freeing her hand to pull her friend to her feet. "I did it!"

"Yeah, yeah you did!" Imoen brushed off her leggings, her face glowing as one of the spark-lights flit past her. "Now what?"

The four flying sparks had not stopped dancing—nor would they, for minutes yet. Unfortunately, the whims of their dance had led them nearly out of sight. Light enough remained to see Imoen rolling her eyes. "Great," she grumbled. "Call those things back, would ya?"

According to the rules the spell set, Sajantha should be able to control the summoned lights with little effort. If her attempt to do so had not already failed, perhaps she wouldn't have stopped to focus a glare on Imoen. And seen the shadow behind her. A shadow that moved, independent of the lights. "Imoen..." her whisper barely made it out. _"What was that?"_

Imoen glanced up from the floor, bending to reclaim the fallen torch. "What was _what—?"_

_"Ssh!"_

Sajantha's heartbeat drummed far too loud for focus; she could not strain her ears beyond it. After a moment, Imoen let out a breath. The flames of the torch seemed to shiver a little, but maybe that was just her shaking hand. "See? There's nothing."

But then came a scrape, and no mistaking it. A low, grinding rasp that set teeth clenching and dragged like nails down her back. Imoen and Sajantha shared a look. "Tell me that's another of your spells gone awry." Imoen jumped back to her feet.

The magic lights vanished around the corner, punctuating the sudden stillness of the hallway they'd left behind. The darkness seemed to wrap tighter. Sajantha shook off a shiver. Would following the lights be escaping danger or running right after it? She didn't care, didn't want to be left alone in that blackness. She chased after them, certain Imoen was doing the same.

_Something_ was. She heard the sound of it clicking on the tile.

Something grabbed Sajantha's sleeve. She spun, breathless, into Imoen's warning grip. "It's following the lights." So they stopped. Ears straining, they hovered in indecision and did not move until the shadows did: the bobbing lights returned, peeking out from around the corner. The lights were heading right towards them—

_Click click click—_

So was something else.

"_Sjach jaka!_" Sajantha shouted, dismissing the spell; the only thing she could think of. "_Sjach jaka!_" One by one, the lights winked out.

So did the torch.

Darkness breathed beside them. Nothing but dark filled their flight, nothing but dark and panting breaths that seemed to suck out all the air—as if this were a much smaller room, as if it did not echo like the immense underground complex it was. A maze.

They would never get out.

"I think—I think we lost it," Sajantha gasped. Whatever 'it' was. They could almost be grateful to be spared the sight.

"Famous last words," Imoen grinned, but the humor didn't quite reach her voice. Sajantha could barely see that smile at all, swimming in shadow. She could only just make out their surroundings, though how close the walls loomed made that little comfort.

"They'll be our last, certainly." It was starting to look as if that were true. "Never mind that we'll die far before any real chance at fame." Die worn-out, tangled-up in these tunnels, no doubt. Sajantha could already see it: "We'll end as smears in the darkness, we two. Nothing more than scribbles in the annuls of Candlekeep—and that's if we're lucky." Perhaps history would take no note of them at all. Perhaps no one would. "They'll think we're pranking, you and I, and when they don't find us under the bed, where do you think they're out to look first? Not here. And even if they tried, well, they'll never find us. Not this far."

Sajantha did not miss the chagrin that came over her friend's face, the determination that chased it off. "Then we'll just get right out by ourselves," Imoen declared. "I got us into this mess, and I'll see us out."

"Come, now," Sajantha said, "there's enough blame to go around. It wasn't you that decided this for me. Not half. I made up my mind all my own. I'll not dump all our misfortune on your head—even should this be the end."

And there came a real smile that warmed Sajantha the tiniest bit and staved off the chill of the caverns: Imoen's grin grew wry as she shook her head. "Still talkin' like a book, as if Deneir himself was out there scribing your every word. We wanted an adventure... well, here it is. All full of dirt and dark and yuck."

That part usually didn't make it into the tales. But heroes would not allow a little muck nor dark deter them. _What would Storm Silverhand do? _Sajantha could do something about the dark, at least. "Do not lose heart, friend of mine—I shall light our path so that it shines!"

"Changed my mind," Imoen huffed. "If the light's stuck to your stupid rhymes, I'd rather wait it out in the dark and quiet."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Sajantha rubbed her eyes, shook her head, then stumbled like that had dazed her even more.

"I shouldn't have made us come. I'm—I'm so sorry, Sajantha. You okay?"

"I think so... it's like I'm walking in a fog, though; it's hard to see—"

Imoen heard the scuff of soft boots as Sajantha dragged her feet. "Well, it couldn't get much darker."

Sajantha turned wide eyes to her, and Imoen remembered that blood in her, that blood that was so easy to forget—because who wanted to remember that their best friend would outlive them by scores of years? That strain in her veins ran through her friend's eyes as well: the night-sight those elves got was due her the same. And not doing much good right now, if Sajantha's staring told true.

"I think it's magic," Sajantha whispered, her hands pressing against her head again. "It's so heavy..."

Imoen swallowed. She had never thought of the darkness as such a frightening thing, but here it was almost physical—heavy, yup— it pressed in around her with enough weight she thought it might just squeeze right inside. "You gonna try for that light spell again?"

No scuffling steps: Sajantha had stopped. It had to be worth risking one of her spells. Imoen held her breath.

"_Sia... sia cha'sid_..." Sajantha's shaking voice trailed off. _"Siksta sia cha'sid."_

Her eyes were scrunched up tight as if not daring to look and witness her failure, but Imoen could see her, could see so clear the way her still-damp eyelashes clung together—Imoen could see it clear, for the other girl's hands were glowing, a halo grown around them both.

"You did it!" Imoen let out a whoop. "Sajantha, you did it!"

Sajantha opened her eyes, smiling, but her eyes stretched open way too quick—way too wide— and Imoen felt fear plummet like a rock in her belly. She whirled to see behind her whatever the other girl now saw—

Gouges clawed into the wall, scrapes of nails dug deep—blood? The scratches dragged like they pointed down the tunnel. And at its end, empty eyes stared back, a grinning skeleton sat: bone-arms locked above it and bone-legs torn away—

"Oh—oh gods," Imoen heard, and she felt it, too, that dread in Sajantha's voice that shrunk it so small. Was that a rustling behind them? Like tiny feet—so many—and all of them crawling up her spine.

"Imoen..." Sajantha whispered. Her hands still glowed, and the shadows jumped all about as she tried to hide them. She gave up and clenched her pink fingers tight together. "Something's out there."

And it had heard them, it had seen them, it was coming closer. More than one of it, a thousand its—a thousand skittering feet—

A thousand blinking eyes—

Sajantha screamed. Or maybe Imoen did. Maybe they both had, and still were; with her heartbeat roaring through her ears, Imoen couldn't tell, didn't care.

Every nerve coiled tight, every muscle coiled tighter. The monstrous creature reached almost as tall as her friend, and Imoen could see their measure clearly, side-by-side as they stood. It gnashed its teeth—claws? Whatever it was, growing from its mouth, clacking and dripping and skittering closer, Sajantha in its sights, its many-eyed sights—

Every instinct said run. All but one.

Imoen hurled her bag straight into that cluster of staring eyes, wishing she had packed something heavier inside it. It still weighed enough to set the monster blinking, angrier. It divided its squinting gross gaze between them. Too bad it had more than enough eyes to do the job.

A metal rod spun free of the pack as it struck the floor. The wand! Imoen had just forgotten it, but it rolled right over to Sajantha's feet. And thank the gods that girl did not hesitate, because the giant-monster-spider was oh-so-close now and getting closer. Sajantha's face was white, her knuckles were white as she clenched the wand and aimed it straight as she could with hands a-tremble.

The hall exploded. A cloud of fire and smoke and sound bellowed over them both, shaking the walls and spinning the world. Imoen collided with the floor and bounced around over tiles so hot she thought she might end up melting.

And though the blast had singed her, it didn't seem to matter so much. Not when she rolled over to see the spider upside-down, crispy legs twitching in the air. Her own back didn't hurt half so bad after that.

"Lucky I brought that wand, huh?" Imoen's laugh was so weak it came out a cough. But relief could let her breathe a little easier as it sunk in, relief that relaxed her into melting all by itself. Spread-eagled on her back, Imoen glanced over at her friend. Relief didn't last when she met Sajantha's still-frightened face, her shaking head. Fear reignited with just that spark to fan it—Imoen struggled up—

"I never even hit the trigger," Sajantha was saying. "That wasn't... that wasn't _me._"

Their eyes stayed locked together a long moment past the realization that neither wanted to confront. Some things were just too frightening to face, and this might just be one of them. Sajantha's hands still gripped the wand tight.

But Imoen could feel some presence heavy above them, even just a shadowy dread—but it couldn't be a shadow; all that light still rose off from Sajantha, and flung the shadows far away. Imoen's head tilted back and she looked up. Up and up and up.

"Oh," she said, and it was more than her voice that felt very small.

"Intruders! Are these two intruders intruding? They are on the wrong side of the gate, but they are not belonging—not intruding?" The voice blew over them, loud, and Imoen ducked before she realized there wasn't any air hitting them with it. "Are these halflings, then? Nay, they are wild things in the shape of children! By what means dost thou come to my lair, child-things? If thou wert intrusive, thou wouldst have entered from the exit, but thine path is from the keep itself..."

"Huh?" said Imoen.

"W-what?" said Sajantha.

"These tiny ones..." Even lowering its voice, the sound shredded through the tunnel. "Small does not lessen the threat, does not shrink it! Nor do they shrink from mine? They are not afraid, not nearly enough!" And the speaker dropped into the light, close enough to get a good look. No, not good. Not good at all. Imoen's step took her right into Sajantha's, and they bumped shoulders.

"So long it has been since any dared my domain."

Oh—oh, gods. And why _would_ anyone dare? If they knew what was down here? Why didn't them monks ever use this to threaten Imoen with, this giant freak thing tugged straight out of someone's nightmare?

It didn't look angry, at least. Not exactly. If you could get past that face—could you call it a face? But—how were you supposed to do _that?_

"Not-intruders," the creature decided. Imoen wondered if it were smiling. With all those teeth, she couldn't really be sure. "How comes the keep these days?" Not smiling, maybe, but friendly. Like it was trying to strike up a conversation. Imoen's chest loosened a bit; she licked her lips. "Havest thou tales of the world to share?"

"S-Sajantha has tales!" Imoen squeaked, poking her friend so that she jumped. "Plenty of 'em! Don't you, Sajantha?"

Sajantha swallowed, staring up at the towering creature. Her eyes looked a bit glassy. "For entertainment purposes only. Not a lick of truth to them."

The beast let out a rumble that might have been a sigh. Hopefully not a growl. "The taste of truth is dust and dry; it crumbles on my tongue, had I one," it said. "Share the flavors of thine imagination, then, be they as bright as the colors that swirl around thee." It leaned closer. "Mm—yes. A child of chaos, is this? Here, come close—let me have a look at thee."

Sajantha took an obedient step forward, but Imoen managed to grab her before she got very far. The goose! Those scorch-marks on the walls showed just how close one could stay out of range, and they were at the edges of whatever kept the creature put. Not out of range of that fire, though, not quite—and that's what kept Imoen feeling so jumpy. That, and all those rows of _teeth_. "That thing just said you looked tasty!" she scolded her friend. "Where you going, gonna walk right up into that mouth?" It was more than big enough to do the job with room to spare.

Sajantha didn't blink. She didn't look right, not at all. Maybe her mind had been racing way too fast; now she just looked dazed, like half of it had run off and left her right behind. "I... I know you..." Sajantha said, and her voice sounded strange, too—kind of wondering, kind of surprised, and all really dreamy.

"This ain't no dream!" Imoen shook her. Too bad she couldn't just shake some sense into the other girl. Would almost serve her right, getting chomped into goo. "That thing wants to eat you and done said it plain!"

"The years have passed and the intruders have been devoured, but there is nothing to sate my empty bones. Feed me words, then, if thou intrude only on my company, and not on my guard."

"There was a story..." said Sajantha. She stared up at the guardian really hard, but almost like she didn't really see it, like her eyes saw something way further off. "A legend... but sometimes the truth and the tale are tied so tight you can't tell the difference. I never really thought—" She blinked. And evidently she wasn't thinking now, neither, for she wasn't paying any attention to Imoen tugging her arm, still flouncing about like her head was all fluff inside a cloud.

_Magic_, she'd said, and that starry-eyed look so unlike her friend couldn't be nothing else.

"Does no one speak of me any longer?" asked the creature. The light from Sajantha made the hollows of its eyes jump in shadow. Its deep voice sounded almost mournful; Imoen felt a twinge despite herself. "Legends, tales—all that is left of me. All that is left." It let out a creaky sigh.

"I know who you are," Sajantha declared, and her voice rang through the hall, like a bell so clear and strong it sang through the dark: so clear it pierced straight through that faraway look in her eyes, so strong it took them with her.

Magic.

_I know who you are. _Imoen could feel it then, too.

"_High above the Coast of Swords,_

_on wings of light a creature soared._

_A flash in the sky shone silver, shone blue:_

_a flash in the sky as she danced, as she flew._

_From above, she watched folk race and run._

_From above, she watched, and thought: what fun!_

_The great wyrm gave chase and the travelers obeyed;_

_it was a game, and one she well played._

_She swept down atop their books and stores,_

_their gathered wealth a worthy horde._

_Not so safe piled inside a wagon—_

_no match at all for the fires of a dragon._

_Those learnéd monks should all beware_

_of this grand creature that owned the air._

_A nip, a bit—a bite thought playful,_

_for these little humans, it proved quite fatal._

_One among them stood up, stood out, stood firm._

"_Thou shalt not," he spake at the wyrm._

"_Ne'er again willst thou do ill_

_to those under protection of Oghma's quill."_

_Then, with magic and spells most profound,_

_he bound her with words, a sentence, so damned:_

"_Ne'er to leave and ne'er to fly free—_

_For twenty years, I do bind thee."_

_And the great dragon struggled, but bowed without voice,_

_to the collar woven 'round her neck that left her without choice. _

_Bound to the service of protecting those she'd slain;_

_bound by those words: "Ne'er again."_

_No wind beneath wings to lift and raise high,_

_no open blue air to soar and to fly,_

_below the Keep of Candles for twenty years she would stay,_

_where her scales would not flash blue, but a deeper, darker gray._

_Twenty years said the sentence, said the sorcerer, now dead. _

_Twenty years had now passed, but he had gone and passed instead._

_The sentence, her chain, proved little better than a noose:_

_deprived of the man that cast it—it still did not loose._

_So the Watcher would watch as more years passed by,_

_knowing all things grow old, and all things must die. _

_And, like the rest, so she too would age; _

_so she too would die, still locked in this cage._

_It didn't come soon_

_and it didn't come fast;_

_death crept like a shadow, _

_closer with each century passed._

_In the darkness, she strangled. In the deep underground,_

_alone and at last, the great dragon broke down._

_In the darkness, she fell; none to watch, none to mourn._

_In the darkness, she died, that once-great silver wyrm._

_Well under that keep, 'neath leather books and lost lore,_

_beneath twisting tunnels and winding corridor,_

_sealed forever by magic and fate most cruel..._

_Sentinel Wyrm Miirym remains watching still."_

A silver dragon! A creature of good and light and wonder—its body would fill the passage, all coiled muscle and glittering hide. For a moment, Imoen could see it, could see those shining scales. They glimmered like water, flowing right across her eyes. Right across her nose, too—was that rain she smelled? But as Sajantha's voice faded off, so did the vision. All ghostly, like fog clearing up, those great clawed feet swirled away. Only left a head, tilting, with maybe sorrow left behind. And then nothing, just empty unblinking eyes and the smooth bone that defined them—

And silence.

Sajantha opened her own eyes and Imoen almost expected them to be aglow, all shining like her face.

"Hmph," the creature—once-dragon—rumbled, and Imoen stood a little straighter as the sound drummed down her spine. "I have heard the tale told far better. But it is true enough, in its way. As much as can be told in such small pieces, these bite-sized little bits. But what more couldst thou see, so tiny as thee? They are all too small to measure, these passing things.  
"So small," it—she?—said, "too small. A century is too small to weigh upon me; it is too little, too light. But centuries a-pile upon centuries, dozens and dozens like every stone above us—we speak of millenia, little ones! Of years that grate and grind and would crush thy frail bodies into dust."

Sentinel Wyrm. A tale so old and buried it wasn't even a whisper in the keep; Sajantha must have dug deep to come up with that one. "How long..." Imoen swallowed. "Just how long you been down here?"

"Dust and _dust!"_ the dragon bellowed. The cry shook loose a rush of the stuff; tiny tiny pieces drifted down like snow well after it. "How many grains of sifting sand canst thou count? If time is a shower of sand, a rain of pebbles, slow at first—but, oh! They still will drown, they still will bury." It let out a great sigh, and Imoen braced to be bowled over by the air rushing free. But there was no air—no lungs—inside those bones. This dragon, like some demilich, was only a floating skull. "...Even Miirym was lost to dust."

Imoen couldn't even wrap her head around it. The head that was still firmly attached to her body, thank you very much! Don't anger the undead dragon, and hope it would stay that way. Sajantha hadn't spoken again—still recovering from her performance? It had been an impressive recital, sure. Why hadn't she mentioned that sharp-toothed tidbit of lore before? Neither of them had answered Imoen's question, though: "How long ago was she lost?"

You couldn't hardly see emotion on a face made out of bones, but her sharp motions seemed tense already. Oops. "Miirym was lost the moment Torth took from her the sky, and thou wonders how _long?_" The dragon-head tilted as if were still stuck to a neck and was reaching—straining upward— "Five hundred days one thousand times... ten hundreds... two? Two _THOUSAND?" _The voice trumpeted out, shaking the walls as it rose. "Gone and gone, and Miirym is still here yet she is not; the years and the rest have all passed and the Sentinel has not—not yet, not all. Miirym is not. She is not; she is naught."

The dragon clenched her great jaws together with a snap, and her head hung low. "There is no time down here," the skull said softly. "There is nothing in the dark. Nothing but a mouth that cannot be fed, a hunger independent of flesh and stomach—wings and heart that long to fly, but no muscles to stretch them." The floating head dipped, drifting downward.

Imoen felt a lump growing in her throat. Sajantha's eyes were glistening.

"That's... that's _horrible,"_ Imoen said. Though her voice cracked around the word, she meant it true. What kind of life would that be? What kind of _un_life? Forever and ever and ever—

"It's not right," said Sajantha, and that glittering in her eye looked like a spark of anger. Imoen thought maybe her shaking wasn't fear after all, not even close. "It's not fair."

"Dost thou weep for me, little ones?" Miirym raised her head, perking up a little. "The thought of thy tears alone might cheer me!"

"Cheer you?" Sajantha asked, getting a strange look on her face. Not so strange as before, no—but something equally scary: that look that said she was getting an idea. They had it all wrong, of course; it was never _Imoen's _ideas they should watch out for. "Is that what you would have of us?"

Imoen had better stall whatever Sajantha was scheming, if they could just wait to double-check her head was screwed on straight first.

"We should be getting back," Imoen said, and sure enough, Sajantha looked ready to argue.

Miirym beat her: "The child-things are leaving? But they have only just arrived!"

"They'll be missing us," Imoen continued, as much for Sajantha as the dragon-creature. She wasn't lying, not even stretching the truth a little bit. Winthrop would have turned out the inn once he found Imoen hadn't yet turned down the sheets—even if she was as good at skipping chores as Sajantha was at studying. And Sajantha being a permanent fixture up inside that library, even those near-sighted monks would notice her missing eventually.

"They will not leave so soon, no; they cannot!"

"Well, maybe not," Sajantha admitted. "We've no idea how to get back, you see."

"I see. Eye sees—eyes see." The dragon peered down at them, her voice lowered to a whisper. "Miirym knows. But why will she share, why will she tell? If thou leaves, then thou art not here, and Miirym still is—Miirym is here, and she is alone. Knowledge is all that is left here, and she is to give it away? What canst thou trade for it, what canst thou leave in return?"

"A promise." Sajantha gathered herself to stare down the dragon. "A promise _to _return. We will take our leave of you, but leave behind a promise to return." Standing tall, Sajantha looked like she didn't have a single doubt to bow her straight back. Imoen almost wanted to laugh, at that sight of the little half-elf with her hands on her hips, standing underneath a floating, toothy skull five times her size, not blinking.

Miirym turned her head as if she wanted to start shaking it, gnashing her teeth like her mouth wasn't empty. "Others have made promises. They would pile like rocks in my belly, had I one. They fill without filling. They are dry and taste of lies. Others have made promises, yet no one else is here. But I am. Always, always, I am."

"I'll come back," Sajantha insisted. "By the Binder's quill, I will swear it—"

"Perhaps you mean it." The dragon's voice—big as the rest of her—easily stepped over Sajantha's. "Perhaps you do not. I will not set spell to bind you to a promise as I have been bound. I will show you the way." Her voice changed pitch, low rumbles and a hiss, "_Ifni arcaniss nif kous._"

Sajantha watched the magic take shape, watched it grow with wide eyes. Imoen watched its reflection dance on her face. _"_Aragrakh_,_" Sajantha said, like it was a word and she wasn't just clearing her throat. "It's Draconic," she added, though her amazed look didn't turn from the portal floating open before them. Draconic. The language of spells. Imoen knew that much.

"How do we know just which way that'll lead us?" Imoen wondered, trying to bump that starstruck look off her friend's face. Where had all that girl's good sense gone—she complained enough on Imoen's lack of it! That door could go absolutely anywhere; who knew how deep these caverns went?

"Miirym knows," the dragon said, voice hushed. "She knows the ways. Both in and out. You can trust this way goes out, though trust itself, why, trust goes both ways." You couldn't pry much expression free of those bony jaws—but going by that laugh, the dragon was pretty pleased with herself. "A choice you must make, a leap of faith you must take; if it is truth you fake, then my trust you forsake."

The portal glimmered patiently, its light reflecting on Sajantha's face. Her eyes would've been shining anyway, the way she was grinning. She turned her smile to Imoen, reaching towards her. "It'll be alright," she said, with so much sincerity it lit her right up—so much strength in that smile, you couldn't question anything she said. "A leap of faith." Imoen took the still-glowing hand and her doubts burned away, one by one. They stepped through the doorway together.

"Wow," Sajantha said, clapping her hands together. The light spell'd finally worn off—and no shooting sparks or nothing. That had to count for some sort of victory. "Wow! That was amazing. That was so much fun! Thank you, Imoen."

Imoen shook her head a bit, blinking away the spots of magic that still fogged it. Fun! "You're welcome." _You're crazy. '_Fun' wasn't the word Imoen would have settled on, though it had been her original aim, sure. 'Scary' might be closer to the truth, and maybe even Sajantha wouldn't deny it was a little frightening. Although a lot of that scariness had just been the way the girl had nearly lost herself—her mind—or a good chunk of her sense, gone to wherever the Weave ran off with it. Better get Oghma to scribe some extra wisdom into that blank scroll she wore around her neck.

"Can't believe you're always lecturing me on risks and staying out of trouble. You took to it quick enough!"

Sajantha looked a bit calmer now; thank the Smiling Lady she'd lost that mad gleam in her eye. "I'm sorry if I scared you," Sajantha said. She could mix up being eerily perceptive with completely oblivious. "But, I—I saw it. Those words I spoke, I felt it all—all that magic and it just bubbled up inside me. But it wasn't just magic; I felt _her_. Her story." She smiled. "I knew we could trust her."

"As much as you can trust anyone gone crazy from captivity, huh?"

Sajantha stepped back, eyebrows lowering. "She's—she's not _crazy._ She's just lonely."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "She's cooked as a cracker! It don't got to be one or the other; I'd say for sure she's both." That little line that slid between Sajantha's eyebrows was her way of disagreeing. Imoen sighed. "_Stir_-crazy, leastaways."

"Well. I'm going back to see her."

Imoen put on a grin, ignoring the little flip her stomach gave. "Never thought otherwise."


	4. Chapter 4

_ Ches 4, 1363 DR  
Year of the Wyvern_

They'd shut Sajantha in her room. Locked her right up. Well, they would have locked her in, if turning a key might have worked, if it wouldn't have just turned right back out. The whole keep was abuzz. Imoen wished she had seen it. She should have been there.

Sajantha had set some repellant force in motion: some magic that just kept shoving back the guards in their armor and knocking those steel swords right from their hands, as it sent every iron candlestick a-tipping as she walked by. So it was well there were wards to keep flame atop only the wicks. The keep had a lot of defenses. And thank Tymora one of them was to keep it all from burning down.

No magic, they'd told Sajantha, drawn the line: not a bit. But it still came out of her, even when she didn't mean for it to. That's why she needed to learn it—to learn how to control it. Right?

Imoen bit her lip. But what if it had been the opposite? If all them metal forks and daggers and little nails and sharp things had been compelled to fly _towards _her, instead? Sajantha didn't need to practice at being a pincushion.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Sajantha hadn't moved from her room. She'd stood up only once, to draw the curtains tight, then wrapped herself up in the resulting shadows. And a pile of blankets. The mirror on the nightstand had landed face-down on the floor, its glass fanned out around it in a silent reprimand. But then its silence broke, too; glass crunched underfoot as the door creaked open.

Sajantha squeezed her eyes shut, digging fingers into her pillow. The mattress dipped as a figure sat beside her. Tears filled her eyes, and her grip began to tremble.

"Why can't my magic be like yours?" Sajantha let out a shaky breath, at last pulling herself up from her pillow. "Why can't I—Why can't I be like _you?"_

Her father said nothing for a moment, but even that told her something: that he was thinking about it. He chose his words with care, consideration. "Just as people do, magic comes in varied forms. It is called the Art, and art has many mediums."

"You mean like, like painting or something?" Sajantha wiped her eyes.

"Aye, painting. Or poetry, or theater... or song."

His hands began to move: a whisper, a gesture, and an object appeared, displacing what was only air before. His own magic impeccable: in his lap lay a perfectly-formed harp. "Music has always helped me settle my thoughts. Some players have skill enough to settle nerves, as well."

He stroked his fingers along the strings; the harp sang out, grateful as a kitten's purr.

"It's... it's beautiful." Sajantha sat up. "Do you—do you think maybe I could learn that?"

A smile filled his face, crinkling his eyes up in the corners. "'Twould be a shame if you did not, for it's yours."

"Truly?" Sajantha swallowed, reaching forward. Her fingers slid right across the polished wood and she hesitated. "Is it—are you sure it's alright? With Ulraunt?"

"Allow me to worry about Ulraunt."

Sajantha looked back down at the harp, at its deep burgundy frame and its slender strings waiting like spun gold shimmering; they seemed to tremble in anticipation.

"You may find magic lives in all things, Sajantha—not only spells. You must call it forth yourself."

"You really think I could do that?" Sajantha tore her eyes from the harp. Her harp. "Be a bard? Like—like Storm?"

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Child, you need not be like Storm. Nor do you need to be like me—though I am flattered you would wish to. Consider us guides, if you must, but draw the map yourself. Everyone charts their own course through life, and to follow in another's wake deprives the journey of its purpose."

Sajantha dropped her head against her father's shoulder with a sigh. "Do you think I might ever be so wise as you?"

He tilted his head, touching hers briefly, but did not chuckle like she had expected him to. "Now, that would be a hard path to press upon thee. Wisdom comes only through experience, and life is far less gentle than any of your tutors here."

Songsheets proved easier to decipher than any scribbled spellwords. Similar motions to learn, though, similar rules to follow. Just as in spellcasting: everything had a right order. A pattern. For spellwork, it was a flash of the correct components, flying fingers, and words of power to activate the latent magic and grasp the Weave. But in these musical notes lived a magic that needed no words to release. This heady rush of soaring sound, fingers flying—it was magic, just like it. Except that it obeyed her.

"It _is_ magic," her father said, but the song had left him smiling, and Sajantha was not afraid. He had spoken in wonder—not accusation—and that was how it felt: soaring and beautiful and pure, higher and freer with nothing to shackle it.

And the world itself seemed clearer and brighter, as open as the sun beaming down through the clouds. Sajantha felt its warmth inside her, felt it burst free.

She could not wait to tell Miirym.

"Sorcerer," Miirym proclaimed, unsurprised. "Whilst a wizard weaves magic, a sorcerer—she breathesit. One is learned, one simply _is._"

"A sorcerer," Sajantha repeated.

"You've been using magic this entire time. You think I cannot scent it? You ooze it like a stink. One does not need to chant archaic scripture to loose a spell. Not a sorcerer."

"You really think I'm a sorcerer?"

Miirym snorted. "I think you are an ignorant thing, but that may be forgiven of your youth and your mortal heritage."

"My heritage? Well!" Sajantha leaned over her crossed legs and propped her chin upon them. "If I'm a sorcerer, there's some what say sorcerers are descendants of dragon-kind. Perhaps it's not my human heritage we should speak on. Perhaps we are some far kin, you and I."

"It is said by whom? Oh, do regale me of these human wisdoms in which thou art supremely versed. My own knowledge may benefit considerably from exposure to thine own."

"You needn't be condescending about it!"

"Thou dares claim kinship with a dragon, yet it is Miirym that is arrogant? Thy youth pardons thee only so far." She growled, "A kobold may claim kinship as well."

"It was just an idea. It's not as though I really know." She knew her mother had elvish blood. And she knew it pained her father to speak of her. She thought he might have mentioned dragons.

Miirym relented. "You know little enough, it is true. But in this conversation of 'perhaps'... Perhaps I will deign to enlighten you on the Weave and its ways."

"I'd like that." There was a long pause, and Sajantha had to look up again to make sure the dragon was still there. "And for this knowledge... what would you wish first of me, O Great Miirym?"

Miirym made a pleased huffing sound. "I would have a story of you. A tale to warm these cold bones."

"Like _Wind by the Fireside?_"

"Drivel and trash," the dragon scoffed. "Spin a tale all your own, and I will have your lesson for you."

"It's a classic! I like that one."

"Yes, and your ignorance is well-established. I, however, do not care for it. And being an infinitely superior being, my opinion bears more than enough weight to quash your own."

"What don't you like about it? It's all about longing and love and a promise. _You are not forsaken, you are not forgotten._.." Evidently a poor choice of verse; the dragon bristled.

"And to be left alone to indefinite suffering is not being forsaken? No aid is offered, no respite given from winter winds and howling hound! Yet still the singer strings along the subject, whispering of some glorious future that remains forever distant. Yet the suffering does not end. The winter does not end." So personal the parallel she had drawn from it: had she a tail, it would be thrashing.

"The thaw will never come," she continued. "The fire inside is an echo of the warmth that is promised. And that flicker of light will never grow into anything more than a spark, no matter how many times that song is sung. The thaw will not come. And even that spark will run out, until only cold remains. It is naught but a lie—a pretty-sounding lie."

Sajantha had never looked at it that way. "Then I will write you a new song, Miirym. I will write you a song and call it _Breath in the Tunnels_: how even in the darkness, there exists a gentle hint of hope—"

"_Wharacic!_" the dragon roared. "Lies and lies! It is a last dying gasp, a death rattle that sweeps through these caverns—it is not _air!_" She rolled her great head, swinging it with force. Her voice dropped to a growl. "No poem will pacify me. Each promise piles upon me, a weight of words I cannot bear—no song will save me_, _Sajantha. Nor can thee."

Sajantha felt like nearly all the breath had been snatched free of her. She hardly dared a whisper, lest her lungs be left emptied: "But a spellcaster could."

The dragon became very still. "And wherefore wouldst this wizard aid me? There is naught to be done." She turned her head aside. "Do not speak of things outside thy control."

Sajantha's hands tightened into fists, nails biting her palms. "You don't know that—not for sure! It shouldn't stop us from trying."

"Oh, but it should! Failure fills so heavy, yet never enough to fit the hollow left of hope. The void is mine, the void am I, and every day it swallows another piece. Failure eats away with tiny teeth, and hope is a limp, mangled thing. Wouldst thou return it to life merely to kill it again?"

Tears stung her eyes, uncomfortably hot as the warmth building within her, like a forge feeding her flame. Sajantha's resolve burned to ash. "No..."

"Good," Miirym said, snapping her jaws shut. But they both knew it wasn't, not at all.

Sajantha found her father at his desk, surrounded by a stack of books, deep in thought. She wondered if Imoen had ever felt half so reluctant to interrupt her when finding her thus. Hesitation slowed her steps.

How upset would he be with this secret she had kept? The keeping of secrets went against all Oghma taught. This keep was one of knowledge, and for the Binder, knowledge—all of it—was meant to be shared. So how, then, could Miirym's own existence have been kept quiet from within such a stronghold? The burden of this secret could not be hers alone.

"Father," she began—hesitant, hopeful, heartfelt— "I've a friend who... well, she's in some kind of trouble."

"Oh? And what has Imoen gotten into this time?" Her father looked up from his study, raising a gray eyebrow. "Have I not taught you both responsibility? She is accountable for her own actions, the same as any other. "

Sajantha decided not to tell him exactly how often Imoen got away with things: far too often for that to really be true. "You also taught me to help those in need of it! But this... it's not about Imoen. And it's not something I can do on my own. I'm—I'm not strong enough. I need your help."

"Strong enough?" Enough to turn his full attention towards her. He tilted his head. "Perhaps you'd best tell me what this is about."

Sajantha took a deep breath. "There's a spell. It's hurting someone. And it's very complex. Only an archwizard is capable of breaking it."

"An archwizard! This sounds like strong magic, indeed. I'm flattered you consider me so skilled."

"You're the greatest mage I know!"

His mouth twitched. "And you are well-acquainted with so many." He shook his head. "Spells so strong as that bind for a reason. Perhaps more harm would be done if this spell were to be broken."

Sajantha frowned. "What if it were some... some beautiful princess, locked in a tower? You wouldn't say that."

"And how do I know she is a princess? Perhaps she is a dark and evil sorceress. Different eyes see different things."

"Those can't both be true. And if you knew her, you'd understand."

"There are at least two sides to every story. Are there fewer truths? Can you claim impartiality with one eye blind? I may not know the whole story here, but nor, I think, do you."

"I'm not blind! I—I know the story. But more than that: I know her. She may not be a princess, Father, but she's not evil. I know she's not! She doesn't deserve to be locked up forever. I mean—does _anyone?_"

Her father cleared his throat, giving his book a long look before his gray eyes returned to her. "That depends on a great many things. One must always remain mindful of the grand scale, Sajantha."

It wasn't the first time she had heard him say that sort of thing. "That's how you have to think when you're a Harper, isn't it?" She realized the truth of it with a pang. "You get so stuck on looking at the big picture that only the wider world's what matters. Not each person. Not their lives."

"Sometimes that needs be true," he agreed after a moment, but he sounded sort of sad. "And yet, there are times when even one of those lives might mean the world itself." A small smile lit his face then, like a secret he trusted her with that sparkled free of his eyes to warm her.

Sajantha felt with a blistering certainty that he must be speaking of her. She could hardly dare to think it—she could hardly dare to say: "Is... is that why you left the Harpers, Father?" Her voice could not grow beyond a whisper. "Was it because of me?"

"Ah," he answered, rising from his chair with a chuckle. "Retired, perhaps, but left? Never." His smile changed. Rueful, she thought, but his eyes kind of crinkled up, much warmer than the cool hand that reached out to touch her cheek. "My child," he murmured, brushing his hand back through her curls and pulling her close to lay a kiss atop her head. "Don't think I've regretted it a moment."

And Sajantha forgot the rest of her argument, forgot she had been arguing at all, because his touch filled her with light and it burst free of her, reflected in his twinkling eyes; she would surely walk off glowing like a sunbeam.

It wasn't until it came time to visit Miirym again that Sajantha remembered. Remembered she had promised the dragon to find help. Hope. Remembered the ease with which her father had thwarted her, intentionally or no.

She didn't know how to bring it up again.

Imoen gave her a pitying look. Although maybe that wasn't quite the word for it, when she rolled her eyes. A pesky look. Perceptive.

"I've never argued with him before!" Sajantha cried. "I just—I don't know how to."

"You could convince a miser out of his last copper coin you just bat your eyelashes at him!" Imoen's hands settled on her hips, framing her impatience. "You're not trying hard enough. You want to help Miirym or not?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then how bad do you want it?"

Sajantha thought of dark, dismal corridors and the despondent sigh that filled them. _Dismay. Despair. _And she returned to her father.

"This spell," he said, not smiling now, "it would not happen to involve a dragon, would it?"

Sajantha's heart thudded to a momentary stop. "You know of her?"

"I know Miirym is guardian of the underhalls for a reason."

"Sure, because she ate some people—but that was a long time ago!" He _knew? _"The sentence was for twenty years, and it's been a hundred times that. If becoming a guardian was a punishment, then she's more than paid for it, Father! It's past time she was freed." He couldn't have known of the Sentinel, not this whole time. Why had nothing yet been done?

"Freed to do what? One might wonder at the wisdom of unleashing a bitter, half-mad dragon upon the Sword Coast."

"She's not like that! She's good; I know she is. Father, she just wants to fly again—"

"With what wings, Sajantha?" His voice was gentle, but there was nothing soft in the way his words gripped her heart and squeezed it. She looked away, biting down on her lip. "She is not the dragon she was when she was first bound," her father continued. "Time and captivity have worn her down." _The void is mine, the void am I, and every day it swallows another piece. _Sajantha could not let it waste her all away.

He tried to catch her eye, and the ease with which he summoned her gaze to his own made her even more upset, that she could not fight it. "How do you know she will not simply crumble to dust if the spell should expire?" her father implored. "It is the magic of that binding alone that has kept her together this long."

Sajantha took a step back. That was it, then? That was his answer? "So you know all about her, and you think it's fine to just leave her down there? Forever? It's not _fair_, Father! It's not right." His refusal to help surprised her even more than the fact she raised her voice to him.

Her father looked tired, though his face was set. His tone was firm. "There are more reasons than you know, child. Miirym corrects a vulnerability in the keep's defenses. As a guardian she is necessary."

His meaning was plain as the severity of his lined face, but Sajantha could not reconcile her hopes dashed against that granite cast, not when she had meant him to hold them all for her. "So you won't help me free her." She could not believe it. She could not tell Miirym— _Hope is a limp, mangled thing._

Tears pricked her eyes, but they were easier to ignore than the tightness in her chest that made her work for every breath.

"It has been tried. Men have lost their lives attempting to untangle Torth's spells. If there was aught that could be done, it would have been—long ago. I'm afraid it is beyond either of us. These die were set in motion an age before."

She could not believe it. She could not accept it. There had to be some way, some answer—

"That might be the way it's been," Sajantha said, "but that's not the way it _has_ to be. We have a choice! The gods themselves gave us free will, and not even Shar in all her jealousy dared to take it back. Who are we to place a claim on another when the gods allow us each our own path?"

"Mortals," he answered. "_Mortals_ are allowed their own paths. But what of immortals, Sajantha? There are those whose steps leave behind footprints greater than any mere human's. Care must be taken where they walk."

"So because she's different, she doesn't deserve a choice? Then you're just condemning her for what she might do, someday—what she's capable of! That's not fair. You can't judge anyone like that—not giving her a chance. Just because of what she is? That's not right. That's... that's not what you taught me. Father."

Her father stayed silent a long moment; she could not tell whether he was irritated at her persistence or amused by it. A bit of both, perhaps: his response, when it came, was a wry laugh. "Turned the tables 'round, then, have you? Mayhap young eyes see clearer. You are a credit to your teachers, as old and foolish as they may be. It is no wonder you impressed a silver dragon."

"I wasn't trying to impress her," Sajantha murmured. "I just wanted to be her friend."

"Then perhaps this will be your own task to take on. If you would see her freed, this endeavor falls to you."

"She needs more than a friend. She needs a spellcaster. A... a good one."

"It would take a powerful wizard, indeed, to break the spell. Tell me, Sajantha, have you given any more thought to studying the arcane?"

Sajantha looked away. "You saw me. I wasn't any good at it."

"It takes more than talent, my dear. It takes dedication and patience. And these you have in abundance. It will take time, but you have that as well."

"But you won't help me."

"I will help you. I will be here to guide you, as I always have. But I will not do it for you. If that is your own goal, then you must strive for it yourself."

"I _will_." And the promise took root like a binding within her, a delicate sprig of possibility: hope.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_Tarsakh 18, 1363 DR  
Year of the Wyvern_

Wizardry was full of tiny calculations held up by rigid rules and memorizations and writings full of the strangest scratching strokes that evidently meant something. Meant _everything, _if you only had the eyes to see it.

"I need to learn Draconic," Sajantha said to whom she imagined must be the most veritable expert on the matter.

Miirym tilted her head. "Perhaps I shall give away all my secrets to you, then. There must remain a few you have not ferreted free of me."

"Most of the advanced books are written in Draconic," Sajantha explained. "If I'm to be an archwizard, I need to be able to read them."

"An archwizard, is it? Thou must first be a wizard, girl, and I would not press that path upon thee. Must thou be sorcerer, bard, and wizard, too—two, and three?"

Sajantha closed her notebook. "I thought you'd be happy."

"Thou knowest, thou should—I bear no love for wizards and their kin. If thou art strong enough to break a spell, then thou art strong enough to fashion one. What assures thou dost not repeat this blasphemy upon another in my stead?"

"Why would I want to do that?" Surprised, she forgot to be offended.

Miirym did not answer for a moment. "Power is a strange thing, child. It tangles, it corrupts. It winds its way into a mind, ensnaring it tight as any chains, and binds it the same. Wizards are the worst of them."

"They're not all like that—"

Miirym ignored her. "Heed this: the greatest of wisdoms that can be bestowed upon thee. It is not a secret, but it is thine to keep close." She nodded. "Magic, power—all who seek it, wish to bend it to their will—these are more slaves than any they may use its might to bind. For even a prisoner may break free eventually… but the wizard will ever be chained to his own ambition.  
"Power is not a thing to be controlled. Torth's magic proved far stronger than he. Heed it or do not, but I would not have us both enslaved."

"I understand," said Sajantha. "I'll be careful."

Miirym sighed, lowering her head. "If thou truly understood, thou wouldst not claim such." She sounded resigned. "Yet you were ever an exception. Perhaps your care will prove enough."


	5. Chapter 5

_ Hammer 18, 1364 DR  
Year of the Wave_

Torth had been mad. Genius, certainly. But the arch-sorcerer must have been mad, to come up with this spell. Spells. And what sane mind could hold such an elaborate pattern within it without twisting—and then dare to burn it into someone else's? Sajantha stared at the binding spell laid out before her, and her heart felt tight, cramped, like it didn't know what to feel, where to go.

Ought she be awed by this majesty? It might even be beautiful, this dazzling web. Glorious. She could feel its potency even before the hundreds of glowing strands burned into her eyes; the power of the magic net washed over her. Bathed her. Drowned.

How intricately overlaid and overlapping were its strands! Dozens and dozens of lines redefining, reinforcing—should any single fragment of his magic be dispelled, the rest of it would reshape, reform around it. Even held aloft with wonder, her heart began to sink.

Hopeless.

That would be a word for this. So would 'impossible.' Idiotic. Her hand tangled in her curls as she tried to push back her hair, and without the wherewithal to wrest it free, she sat there like that, shaking.

"They tried to warn me," Sajantha said. To Imoen. She couldn't admit it to anyone else, couldn't reveal that fear weaving itself inside her, taking root. The fear of futility.

Of failure.

Imoen shifted. "Mister G said as you could do it. Told you to, didn't he?"

"_Attempt_ it, he said. Maybe that was his lesson. Like a diversion. Just to—to keep me occupied." He knew Torth's tomb looked like this, hidden by a knot tangled so tight it could not possibly be unraveled.

"Sure. 'N don't you remember nothing else Gorion told you?" Imoen's voice was quiet. "You can do anything you set your mind to. You tell me that's not believing in you."

"It can't be done." Sajantha blinked at her lap. "He told me that,too_. _It's been tried, he said; no one could do it." She'd been a fool, to think so much of herself. Naïve. Potential, perhaps she had potential—but what did that mean, if she were clueless to apply it? She squeezed her eyes shut and the net of spells seemed to settle on her skin. Strangling.

She heard a scuff as Imoen stood. "Seems to me a lot of what you do breaks rules other folk thought set in stone. Maybe it's true, that no one else could do it. Maybe not, til you." Imoen's boot poked her in the side with a little nudge. "Or you giving up before you start?

"I..." Sajantha licked her lips. At her sides, her hands curled up. "I can't," she realized, pushing herself to her feet. "I can't give up."

"Yeah," Imoen said, and held out her hand. Sajantha pulled herself up. "I know you can't."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_ Ches 15, 1365 DR  
Year of the Sword_

"Sajantha! How are your studies coming along?" Tethtoril's measured steps took a moment to cross the hall to reach her. "I hear you've been devouring books at an even faster rate than usual."

"Aye, very well, sir, thank you." Far better if Candlekeep had more spellbooks and fewer discourses on them; there was only so much one could infer without practical use. Without practice. "Though half the time I fear to run out of books."

Tethtoril laughed. "Upon a time I feared that, myself. But the world grows larger—not smaller—the more you read; you'll find it only extends your horizons further. Much can be gained by focusing in on a single subject. You must needs pace yourself. There's no reason to take it all in at once."

But Sajantha had a reason. When she found the school of study she needed, well, then she would slow. Conjuration had proved most promising thus far, but even narrowing her search to a single path, it still stretched far ahead. Spells of Torth's caliber were the accumulation of a lifetime's pursuit. Perhaps more than one lifetime.

Sajantha looked down. "The other half of the time, I'm afraid I haven't time enough," she admitted, and Tethtoril sobered.

"I wonder if I cannot encourage you, some," he said. "I've been speaking with the other monks—your tutors especially—and due to the commitment you've demonstrated these last years, as well as your exemplary behavior, 'twas not difficult to reach an agreement. We should like to extend your access to the upper towers."

Sajantha stared at the First Reader, open-mouthed. "Truly? Oh, oh—Tethtoril! Thank you, thank you so much!" She gripped her notebook tight, hugging it to her chest. "But... Ulraunt, too? I'm sure that was at least a little difficult."

His own wry smile concurred. "You deserve it. You've continued to show the enthusiasm and respect for knowledge which Candlekeep itself was instituted upon. And you have always conducted yourself as befitting any Avowed." He clasped his hands together. "You're old enough, now... Perhaps you might soon wish to take the vows yourself, become a lay sister of Oghma."

"I... I would be honored, sir."

He beamed at her. "Very good." He dipped his head. "I look forward to seeing what your research uncovers."

Her heart skipped a beat, but Tethtoril's smile held no suspicion, no idea just what her research entailed; her smile wavered but a moment before it returned in full force. Access to the upper floors. Where the spellbooks were.

Tethtoril hadn't yet moved; he was patting down the edges of his robes, and tilted his head. "Have you seen Imoen, perchance?"

Sajantha realized she hadn't, not in awhile. "I believe she's running chores for Winthrop today, sir."

"Ah," he said, "of course. Very good." He nodded again, and began to walk away.

A small object glittered, spinning across the ground between them. "Oh!" Sajantha reached after it. "It looks like you dropped something."

He tilted his head. "Yes, it appears I have."

"Ought I tell Imoen you're looking for her?"

He looked down at the object. "No. No, I don't think that will be necessary." He smiled very slightly, returning it to his pocket. "Thank you, Sajantha."

"Of course," she said, waving after him.

"Whew," said Imoen, brushing off her hands. "That one's a talker, huh? Thought he'd never leave."

"Imoen!" Sajantha had not even noticed the other girl appear. "What's going on?"

"Have I got something to show you." Her friend threw a grin over her shoulder, dancing on her toes. "Congratulations, by the way."

Sajantha found herself pulled along before she even noticed Imoen had taken hold of her arm. "Gods, you've missed so much lately! Lot to catch up on. Nessa's just gave birth, so Dreppin's got his-self a baby cow to look after. And Hull's got a bolt in the arse after Fuller's crossbow misfired. Don't look at me like that! It was an accident; I swear. Though I did swap his healing tonic out, so he's back in the infirmary burping purple bubbles. What else? Feels like an age."

It did feel an age, just as Sajantha felt as though she were drowning beneath Imoen's wave of exuberance. Even though it was Imoen not taking a breath. "C'mon! Got myself a new bow the other day, promised Reevor I'd sort out his rat problem. Thought maybe you'd like to see it."

Sajantha planted her feet, slowing her friend at last. "Didn't you _hear_? I can reach some of the restricted books, now!" Without supervision. Her voice dropped. "The spellbooks? This is exactly what I need!"

"Yeah, that's great!" Imoen's feet still danced. "I'm happy for you, I sure am. But this won't take but a bell or two. Besides, you need to get out of this here tower; you're turning white as them pages! And as thin!" She let go, only to poke Sajantha in the stomach.

Sajantha stopped, putting up her hands. "Oh, Imoen. I just don't have the time for it right now."

"Puh-lease. I bet you'll find some time when your eyeballs fall out from staring at books all day."

Sajantha couldn't help but picture Miirym's empty skull. She swallowed. "I'm going to climb the tower," she told Imoen, "and I'm going to get started right now, and not waste any more time. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to watch you poke arrows through a bunch of rats!"

Imoen's feet scuffed the floor as her hands dropped to her sides. "Alright. Sure. Yeah, you go do that."

Magic circles. Perhaps the lines of Torth's spell had—at least initially—been patterned on such a plan. Many spells existed to bind great creatures—demons and devils, elementals and monsters across all the planes—like summoning circles, to lock their target in place whilst the wizard weaved a spell to enforce his command. Those trapped had no choice but to obey.

And mayhap Torth's spell had been such a one, this net he cast upon Miirym that strangled her, still. If Sajantha could just determine the original design it had been based on, if she could find some pattern—some order—to that mess, then she could make sense of it. And if she could make sense of it, then it was a problem that could be solved, like any other. Sajantha turned the dry pages of the old tomes with care.

She could do this. She had to.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_ Hammer 6, 1366 DR  
Year of the Staff_

"Sent to depress me? Thou wilt sing a sad song, indeed, were I to bring my jaws closer and gnash thee between them. I need not a stomach to devour thee." Grinding teeth echoed around them. Miirym's malaise filled the room far larger than her form; the tunnel walls seemed to tighten.

"I'm sorry," Sajantha said, setting down her harp. The cold of the stone seeped through her clothes; she sat up a bit. The gloom of the underhalls seemed to creep into everything; it even coated her harpstrings. And though Miirym had requested a song, it had not been enough to break her mood. "It's still missing the last verse. When a daring arch-sorceress returns to break her binding and set her free."

"Free? What is free, without a form, without wings?" Miirym's great head pivoted, pinning Sajantha with the deep hollows of her eyes. "I envy thy weak, frail body," she growled. "Thy tiny, timorous hands. Mine own will never again feel the sun. Never be warmed. Never again."

Sajantha's pressed her lips together. Never? She refused to accept such absolutes; Torth, smart as he was, could not be the smartest man whom ever lived. Nor the greatest spellcaster. "I said I'd do it. I swore it." She closed the case of her harp, latched it shut, and stood. "I'll find a way."

"A way to where, away, oh where? No where, no way. No song, no spell, no hope. Nothing, no thing. Nothing to do. Nothing to _be_." The dragon's head sank down. "Just as Miirym, thou art. Nothing, we are nothing."

"Miirym, please. Don't—"

"_Nothing_," she hissed, leveling her head out straight, stiff. "_Ehis, mi si ehis. _I feel nothing, even now." She shivered, a thrash thrumming through her; if she had a body—a tail—it would have lashed out, striking the walls. Something did, setting off a shower of pebbles, a cloud of dust. Something rumbled down the hall, setting the loose rock rattling. Miirym bellowed, and her cry screamed through the tunnel, near burying them both in a tumble of stone.

The rumble thrust Sajantha back in a wave of rocks and grit. Her head cracked against a crumbling wall; she blinked sparks from her eyes and watched Miirym's jaws closing down around her.

Down the hall.

Down the hall, the dragon's teeth crunched close; down the hall, but she felt the vibration through her. Sajantha scrambled upright, dizzy. Miirym loomed large—but far from her, across the room. _How—?_

She stared down at her hands, feeling the flush of heat, the tremble and quick breath that followed in the wake of her magic. Across the room, Miirym had stopped.

"Oh, Sajantha! Sweeting, my sweet—" A keening wail wavered through the tunnel. "I have killed thee. Not even so tasty as I had imagined. The heart is cold, the heart is gone. Empty—oh! Oh, we are empty; we are dead, we are death."

"Mirrym?" Sajantha wiped her stinging eyes, taking a few unsteady steps towards her friend. She caught herself as she stumbled; a smear of blood stained her hand, smeared the wall.

"Death—death, I taste it; I smell it on thee, only now." Miirym shuddered. "Is it thine? Is it mine? My own essence corrupting her?" Her dark gaze turned at last to Sajantha. "Stay back, away—away!" She retreated, hovering high as the cavern would allow. "Leave! Leave, and live. Believe me." Miirym slipped back into the shadows; they grew to fill her eyes."Leave me."

"Miirym," Sajantha cried out after her. "I'm sorry; what did I do?" She choked in a breath determined to sob free of her; she clutched her hands to her chest. "I'm sorry, Miirym, I'm so sorry—don't go. Please don't. I'm sorry!"

The skull swiveled back towards her, and hung in the air. Frozen. As smooth and cold as the rock around it. As lifeless.

"Leave," it said.

Once it stopped bleeding, the cut on her head proved shallow enough to avoid concern, and proved high enough for her hair to cover it. One more thing to hide. Sajantha's eyes watered as she combed out her tangles and she grit her teeth. _I'll do it, _she thought with each tug on her scalp, _I promised I won't give up that easily I'll do it I swear. _

"You been going down to see Miirym alone, haven't you?"

Imoen! Sajantha almost dropped her brush, whirled around. "So—so what if I have? I should just wait about, then, til you've the time to spare?"

Imoen made a face. "Spare me your guilt trip, Sajantha; it's you as never wants to go out with us." Fresh from the outdoors, Imoen had managed to track in a bit of snow; it slowly pooled beneath her boots.

Sajantha frowned. "Maybe I would, did you want to do something useful with your time and not fritter it all away."

"You could use a good frittering, I'd say. Get your nose outta them books and you'd really learn a thing or three."

"Why should I? I'm not any good at—at any of that! At running or archery or drinking or dagger-throwing, or whatever it is you do all day. Why would I want to!"

Imoen lifted her chin. "'Cause I wanted you to. You'd be welcome. That's not good enough?"

"I don't know: is it? You never want to do any of the things I'd like to."

"Like what? What kinds of things?"

"Books." Sajantha bit her lip. "Magic."

"You still on about that? Gawd! Don't you ever think about anything else?"

"I'm going to save Miirym. I promised her! And you said you'd help; don't you remember? If I can come up with a spell, I'll need someone to help cast it."

"So find someone. I'm not no mage, just like you're not no archer. I don't have time for that dusty stuff."

"I see." Sajantha crossed her arms. "But you have time to mess about with Hull and that sort?"

Imoen made a scoffing sound as she drew back. "'That sort', is it? Whyn't you say it plain. You think they're not good enough, or something?"

"I think you're all a poor influence on each other, is what I think—though it's more than just an opinion in this case; it's a fact. Why, you got Hull so drunk the other night he forgot his sword for guard duty come morning. Forget my opinion—that's just irresponsible! What if something had happened?"

Imoen stamped her foot, splashing a bit of slush onto Sajantha's long skirt. "Ain't nothing ever happens! That's the point. You've gotta make your fun where you can. What, I should spend my time locked up with them stiff-necked monks like you? It's not all of us have those stuff-shirts so enamored."

"The monks would welcome you quick enough if you could sit still and stay silent for more than a bell at a time—"

"You're older 'n me by a bare cat's whisker—quit acting like my mother!"

"I'm just trying to look out for you—you're making a mistake!"

"You're the only one who cares so much about mistakes!" Imoen threw her hands in the air. "Whyn't you try making one, for once in your life. You never try _anything_ 'cause you're scared to screw up. To fail." Imoen shook her head, lips pressed down flat. "You can hide things from everyone else, but not me. Quit telling me what I want to do; you're just jealous I've got the guts to do it."

Sajantha's nails dug into her arms, her breath came out fast through her nose. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything."

"No? You think you're smarter than me, like you can make my own decisions better? You're not always right, Sajantha. Not hardly. If I wanna make a mess of things, well, that's my own business. Hull's good enough company whether he's sober or not, and if he happens to be more fun when we're both drinking, then—so what? I've a handful of coppers here says you would be, too."

"Coppers? Oh, some coppers you found just lying around, I suppose? Maybe if I stopped covering for you all the time—if you had to face some real consequences—you'd change your tune."

"You want I should be like you, you mean? All suckin' up and sweet as sunshine? And like they love you so much for that! How can you even trust a thing anyone says to you with you a-fogging their minds with those spells?" Imoen shook her head, shifted her feet. "Ain't no good comes of muckin' about folks' brains. No, sir."

"You—how can you say that! I do no such thing! Why, your brain's mucked up already, speaking of. At least I don't speak like a stablehand. Talk about 'mucking up your brain'!"

"Don't you go around pointing fingers—" Imoen punched the air with her own finger— "ain't a thing wrong with stablehands. I happen to enjoy their company. Them's a decent sort, more 'n those hoity-toitin' boring monks you hang about with. Putting on airs, like you're that much better than the rest of us."

"Better at articulation, certainly!"

"You think just 'cause you've got Mister G wrapped 'round your finger you get to lord down on me? You aren't the boss of me. Your little spells won't work on me, neither, so's I'm the only one can tell it to ya straight: they only put up with you for your father's sake; I done heard it myself. You're here on sufferance, same as me."

"What?" Sajantha's hands fluttered; she latched them to her skirts. "Why—what do you mean? What did you hear?"

"Whatever Gorion worked out with Ulraunt, seems it's his own business—but they'd throw us out straightaway without him; don't you think otherwise. All this studying, all the friendly-ing up... well, it wouldn't make no difference. You can't make people like you, Sajantha. Magic doesn't really change anything, not like that. All you'll do is rile 'em up, they catch on to you. 'S why Ulraunt doesn't care for you, I think."

"That's... is that really what you think, then? That's how you see me?" Sajantha bit her lip. "That I'm just, just _manipulating_ everyone?"

"Ain'tcha?" Imoen shrugged, looked away. "Maybe you don't even realize you're doing it. But I got eyes. I seen it; 't ain't natural. You're the one that'd best be careful, messing about with people's minds like that."

"So—so what? Did we switch places when I wasn't looking? I have to listen to you lecture me, now?"

"Yeah! Yeah, you do. Not so fun, is it?" Imoen crossed her arms. "You never listen to me, anyway. It's always 'Oh, I don't have time for your silliness right now, Imoen,' or 'I really need to figure out why the gnomish uprising of 1242 failed.' Blah blah blah. What's the point?_ You're_ the one wasting time; you'll be the same as everyone else around here. Ain't nothing you ever do in these walls will amount to more 'n a pile a dust."

Sajantha's hand flew to her chest. Made a fist. "I can't believe you'd say that. You can't really mean that."

"No? Why don't you try some of that divining on me; make sure I'm not lying? Yeah, go ahead. Right now. Cast some magic—I wanna see if you can do it. Make me not mad at you."

"Stop it. Imoen. Don't make me—" Even clenched tight, her fingers shook, their tremble traveling up her arm. "If I did, you'd hate me for sure—"

"Betcha can't!"

Sajantha screwed shut her eyes. Something welled up behind them—not tears, no—something deeper; it swelled beneath her surface and burst free. It escaped her, this rushing surge, loose and limber and she could not grasp it; a wave of energy slipped out before she opened her mouth. Before she formed any intent with it. It left her empty, and she faltered. Gasped in a breath and nearly choked. Cold hit her before the pressure did, nearly knocking her off her feet—her brain scrambled to make sense of it, blinded—she heard Imoen spluttering. "The hells—!"

Sajantha peered out from hair slicked against her forehead, pushing back the heavy curls from her eyes. She spit out a little water.

Imoen started to laugh, took a look at Sajantha's expression—aggrieved, no doubt—and laughed harder, dribbling more droplets across the floor. "Never took ya for being so literal... If you wanted to come get soaked with us tonight, you only had to ask!"

Sajantha wrung out her skirt. "I think it's clear. I'd best study."

"Oh, stuff it!" Imoen shook her head, strands of hair sticking to her face. "Look at you, you right soggy wet blanket! You're coming along, like it or not."

Sajantha tried to wipe off her face. Her eyes. "I don't... I really don't think I'd better." She hunched forward, rubbing her arms. "I've work to do. And I ought to fix this."

"Aww." Imoen gave her a squishy pat on the shoulder. "You're a real sad sack, huh. You wanna mope around waiting for someone to hand you a mop? C'mon, let's get you outta here afore they do."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"This'll cheer you right up; see if it don't. You just need a distraction."

"Do I?" Sajantha dabbed at her head with the towel. Hard not to laugh at her some more when her hair stood out all a-frizz. As usual, she didn't seem to notice it. _Harder_ not to laugh. "And what about what Miirym needs?"

"Come on, now." Imoen grabbed the towel from her, patting down her own damp hair. "You can't think about her all the time, or you'll go as crazy as she is, and who's that gonna help?"

Sajantha tugged at her necklace. "What if... what if she's getting worse?"

Imoen stopped, let the towel drop. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Nothing." Sajantha turned away. "Never mind. I just wish we could move faster."

"Miirym's waited two thousand years; she ain't gonna miss an hour."

Sajantha hugged her arms. Didn't look convinced. And still so pale! She really needed to get outside more. That girl didn't need a distraction, she needed an intervention. Imoen would set her straight, she would.

Voices floated up from downstairs, the inn door banging back and forth. Imoen gave her friend a grin. "Party's starting."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Hull here's gonna go grab us some drinks," Imoen said, elbowing the much-taller man, "ain'tcha, Hull?"

Hull glowered. "You're the one that works here, remember? I'm off-duty." And so were many other Watchers, if Sajantha might guess, just going by the size of their shoulders alone. No robes in sight.

The inn was rather boisterous after candleglass, and with few faces Sajantha recognized. Of course there would be others, from guards to gardeners; Candlekeep was not just a library, it was a whole functioning town. She'd explored but a corner of it. The corner_stone _of it, though. "I never really thought... I didn't really realize how few folk I know, outside of the monks," Sajantha admitted, surprised at the revelation. The scholars kept to themselves, to their studies.

"I been telling you!" said Imoen, poking her. "You remember Dreppin, though, don't ya?" She pointed toward a lanky lad leaning against the wall.

He startled. "Oh, hullo," Dreppin said, ducking his head. "I was a stableboy, way back; been here awhile. Seen you around, though. I mean, we ran into each other a few times. Don't expect you'd remember, always hurrying about with a book and such." But he smiled.

"I remember," Sajantha said, and his smile spread til he squinted. "I remember Imoen pranking you with some ink when we were kids."

Dreppin touched his mouth, grinning. "Ain't never gonna forget that, myself. But I got her back good, I did."

"You wish." Imoen rolled her eyes. "Eight years I been holding my breath waiting for your great comeback." She tugged the sleeve of a man passing by. "Oh, hey, 'n this here is Fuller. One of the senior Watchers, he is." Senior, perhaps, but he didn't look so very old to Sajantha. Middle-aged must be far older for a guardsman than for a monk.

Fuller nodded. "Immy here says you're a real wizard with the music. Like magic, she says. Think you could play something for us?"

"Oh," Sajantha glanced over at Imoen, who gave her an unhelpful wink. "I'm afraid I haven't got my harp with me; I'm sorry."

Imoen leaned forward. "No fear, Ode over there's got an old lute, swears it's in tune. What do you say, Sajantha: that magic good for anything? Can bards pick up just any instrument?"

"Oh, I can pick it up," Sajantha said, "but I can't promise you'll like what you hear." A few laughs. Sajantha smiled a little bit as she examined the offered fiddle, her face warm and ears warmer.

"You gonna try it?" Imoen raised her eyebrows.

Sajantha gripped the neck of it and hesitated. Harp strings were for plucking, lute strings were for strumming. She knew that. Not much else.

And she didn't know these people, not really; it wasn't as if she cared what they thought, after all. Did she? Sajantha licked her lips. Don't be afraid to fail. That's what Imoen had been getting at.

Strum. She readjusted her grip.

"Know any folk ballads, or just the dusty stuff?"

Sajantha fiddled with the strings a bit. "If you lend your voice, I'd do my best to accompany you." A beat had begun already, in her chest and in her ears.

"Alright." Fuller cleared his throat, nodding.

_ "It was in and about the Hammer's end,  
When snow had long been falling,  
In those treads of snow most deep,  
The Zhentarim first came calling."_

Sajantha focused on Fuller's face as he sang. Well, chanted, really; his voice was far too flat. But who here noticed—or cared? She listened, all the while watching his wide cheeks, flat nose, gruff jaw. The smile threatening the corners of his mouth, the smile that softened all the lines of his hardened soldier's face.

Sajantha did not need the whoops of the crowd to taste the flavor of the forthcoming verses when she could see it already in Fuller's grin, creeping in as quiet as the sparkle in his eyes. Boisterous and lively where the harp was deliberate and dignified, a storm of fury and splashing puddles versus a trickling rain, flowing water.

She picked a pace both bright and airy, still studying the older man to keep in time. Together their feet tapped out a rhythm. She must have gotten it right; his wink was little more than a twitch of his eye—gone in half a blink—and Fuller's smile caught fire inside her, set her fingers faster. Caught up in the tempo, the stomping feet, her fingers flew—but not of her own volition—her mind could not think fast enough to keep up with them; her mind could not tell her what to do. But her fingers knew. Or Fuller did, and it was the same thing: she watched the Watcher's face, his lips, his nodding head, and some part of her translated it without conscious thought, without thought at all.

And all their air flew out, flew fast: out of breath, the music stronger for it: for they had first given it breath, and now it lived and took its own.

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Imoen could tell the second Sajantha lost hold of those threads she weaved. She kept plucking them notes right out of the air, fingers too fast to follow, but then she looked up with her face gone white, and they faltered. A sour note or two, but the crowd so caught up in the music they kept singing on, even if whatever spell they'd knit together was already fraying.

_ "The Harpers found them frozen, all;  
Still locked in their in-fighting.  
For the surest way for groups to fail,  
Is in such souls inviting!"_

Sajantha didn't make it to the last couple lines, but those men just belted out louder, so mayhap no one even noticed her slumped, after, hands still shaking. She straightened, looking up at Imoen, her eyes shiny as her skin. "I did it," she whispered. Her hand hovered in front of her face as if it could catch her breath for her. "I really did it." Behind her fingers, a smile stretched her cheeks.

"You really did," Imoen said. Not that she'd ever disbelieved it, but seeing the proof was another thing entire. Magic: she'd been right. But mayhap they both had. Wasn't anything wrong with it, though, was there? Really? The whole room so afire now, the crowd'd be lounging about even longer, ordering even more drinks. Good enough for Winthrop, at least. Must be why so many taverns employed bards. Not such a bad investment. Too bad the innkeep had gotten stuck with Imoen, instead.

Imoen sank down beside her friend, letting out a sigh as she stretched out. "Whew." Sajantha wasn't moving much, but the smile stuck on her face, even as she wiped at her forehead.

Hull popped over the edge of the couch with a drink in each hand; he'd come right around. "You looked thirsty," he explained, when Imoen raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged, ears turning pink as she waited to thank him, long enough to ensure he just rolled his eyes and stomped off. She smirked into her drink.

"What do ya think?" she asked Sajantha they sipped the ale.

Sajantha made a face. "It's... blechh. How do you drink this?" But she _was_ thirsty, still tipped it back. That oughta be interesting.

"It's not so bad." Imoen settled back, gesturing around them. "Is it?" Hard to make her voice heard over the din with the ruckus still in full swing. Someone new—and novice—had picked up the fiddle, or else someone started shaking a cat; it let out a screech beneath a gale of laughter.

Her friend laughed a little, too, face flushed. "I suppose not," she allowed.

Imoen leaned forward, arms crossed over her knees. "You know I care about Miirym, too, right? I do." And worrying about Sajantha worrying about Miirym was enough to make her sick.

Sajantha's hand tightened on her glass. "I—I know."

"I just... I dunno why you want me to mess with magic so bad; I haven't got the head for it." Even thinking about getting locked up with piles of books made her antsy. "Now, you need someone to clean out rats from the storeroom? I'm your girl."

"Don't be like that." Sajantha shook her head, took another gulp, and shuddered. "That's really your idea of a good time?"

"Could be. Care to join me?"

Sajantha looked down. Looked thoughtful. Looked a bit tipsy, too, if those pink cheeks meant much. "There's no reason for them to be mutually exclusive, our pursuits." She leaned forward with excitement still all a-shine on her face. "I'll prove it to you."


	6. Chapter 6

"We'll take care of it," Sajantha said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strange, strained. Off-pitch, the notes flew sour: too high, too fast. "We'll just... we'll put them back, behind the stables or something." Somewhere hidden. They could bury this crime, bury it far enough away that it no longer existed.

"No one'll miss 'em, anyway. Right?" Imoen's laugh came out wrong. Strangled out. "Good-fer-nothin'."

Sajantha glanced up to where the other girl hovered in the entryway. Her friend's face inspired no confidence; with her glassy eyes and marble-white skin, Imoen looked like a statue of herself. She looked like she was about to be sick. Her eyes jumped to Sajantha as the rest of her froze. "Someone's coming," she said, and Sajantha felt lightheaded, like she might be sick, too.

"Reevor?"

Imoen didn't answer. "If they find out," she said under her breath, "what do you think they'll do?"

They? _They?_ Sajantha, in truth, was only worried about one. Her hands shook as she tried to wipe them off.

The door opened. Light fell across the storeroom only where the silhouetted figure allowed it through. Her father's tall frame filled the doorway. As his face fell on the scene before them, she saw a terrible thing.

So did he.

She saw his face transform: concern—confusion—

Consternation.

"Oh—" he said, "oh, my child..." And his voice was so full of dismay it could not contain it; his voice broke but it shattered inside her, and Sajantha let out a little sob. She buried her head in her hands unable to look at him, forgetting the blood that wound down her fingers. _Condemnation._

"Sajantha," said her father, and his voice was full of a thousand terrible things and she could bear not a one of them; her name was a curse, it was a question: _"What have you done?" _He took a step, and she felt his footfall resound like she felt the weight of his words, stacking one by one: a barrage of bricks that buried her down, brought her sagging to the ground.

"Oh—oh gods," an unfamiliar voice whimpered out, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to. I didn't mean for it to happen."

Her father looked from where Imoen stood pale and quiet at the door, to the bloodied bodies around them. His gaze came to rest on Sajantha's sobbing form, and he stayed silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you'd best tell me what did happen," he said, standing very, very still, like the same tension that tightened his voice wound 'round his whole self and held him captive.

Sajantha wiped her nose with the back of a shaking hand. "Reevor—you, you know how he's always complaining about the rats in here? Well, he—he called Imoen over to take care of it. Practice her shooting on them. But I said that he wouldn't need to do that anymore if only the mousers did their own job and I thought maybe that was something that _I_ could help with, because I—I just had this idea..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought... I thought there had to be a spell that could do the trick, maybe make them more brave. Motivated. I thought..."

Sajantha could not bear her father's terrible stillness; could not bear if she looked up and saw him glaring down with the same disappointment she felt in herself. She cleared her throat and spoke faster. "I, I thought it would work. But it didn't, not at all. They just—they all went crazy." She drew in a shuddering breath. "We had to—we had to—"

Sajantha startled as she felt the touch at her elbow. She sniffled, peeking out, as her father bent to take her arm, as he turned it. Scratches and cuts—claw marks—wound all around down her skin. "Oh, Sajantha," her father murmured, the words catching like they had run around a lump in his throat. He let go of her arm only to pull her close: she found herself pressed into his side, the great sleeves of his robes draped about her.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, her eyes filling with another wave of tears as she leaned into him. "I, I know I wasn't supposed to—I shouldn't have even..."

"Sajantha," he said again, and what she heard in his voice was so unexpected she had to pull back to look at him, to confirm it.

"Are you—are you _laughing?_ Father, this is _horrible, _it—"

He stood, pausing to pull Sajantha to her feet beside him. "It will be alright," he told her. The relief on his face kindled the same spark inside her; she could not disbelieve him. But that was not what sent relief spiraling upward through her own self with a surge so strong it nearly took her head with it: hebelieved_ her_. Fuzzy, floating; she anchored herself onto her father's arm, lest all of her fly away. He believed her. _He believed her. _He saw right inside her and knew the truth—and he forgave her.

And even if it was lost in the folds of his cloak as she pressed into his side, she couldn't help smiling back. Far more pleasant to focus on that than the fallen felines at their feet.

Ulraunt found out. Of course he did; Sajantha couldn't have expected both her father and Imoen to lie for her. Not that she would have wanted them to. Of course not. Nor would the Keeper be as forgiving as her father; he had to punish her somehow. Of course he did.

"Many lesser _incidents_ have been overlooked, but I will turn a blind eye only so long." Ulraunt stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "You were warned against casting spells. You endanger everyone here with your... thoughtless actions."

Ulraunt's eyes were so sharp they cut clean through her. Sajantha hunched against her chair; her hands came up to hug her chest.

Sitting beside her, Imoen uncrossed her legs and crossed her arms, instead. "Wasn't her fault, not half. I goaded her to try it, I sure did." Imoen squared her shoulders, leaning forward as if to dare him—bait him. "She wouldn't have done it, not for me."

"You!" The Keeper kept glaring as he whirled on Imoen. "You are nearly as bad—neither of you seems to think the rules apply to you. Do not think your part in this will be overlooked."

"Leave her alone!" Sajantha blinked, found herself on her feet. "Leave her out of this. Don't talk to her that way."

"Way—what 'way'? I will talk to you as children, as you seem intent on acting!" He grimaced. "Yet even a child will not stick her hand into a flame more than once. Have you learned so little, in all these years?"

Sajantha's jaw clenched. She folded her hands together. Fists. Her nails pierced her palms.

"You knew the consequences. Magic is not a plaything for your amusement. It is a very real responsibility, one it is clear you cannot handle."

Gripping her hands tight, Sajantha had wrung them white, squeezed the trembles right out of them. And in that stillness she could see clearly, recognize his blow-harding for what it was; he should not be nearly so worked up. Not if this was to be the end. The thought made her strangely calm. She lifted her chin, her gaze, her voice: "Are you going to throw us out of Candlekeep?" She knew, though. Knew he wouldn't.

Ulraunt paused, thin jaw clinched. "No," he admitted at last, snapping his mouth closed. He paced back from the window, hands on hips. "You may remain in the keep, yes. But never think you belong here. Your disobedience threatens everything we stand for—puts us all at risk! We have rules for a reason; do not forget that. Nor should you forget that living here is a privilege." Ulraunt leaned over her. "You are visitors here. And it's time you remembered that."

"What... what do you mean?" Sajantha could not think past the dread curdling within her; all her insides felt twisted tight.

Imoen knew what it meant, though, her own mind made the connections quicker. "Don't—don't do that to her. It was an accident. Just some cats, you know? Shouldn't be the end of the world. Right? Not like she killed somebody."

"Today," said the Keeper. "_Today_, it was cats." He shook his head. "Have you truly no idea how dangerous wild magic is?"

Sajantha whispered, hoarse, "It won't happen again." It couldn't. It wouldn't, not ever; she could not let it.

"I've heard that before." Ulraunt smiled. Satisfied, smug. Successful.

And Sajantha knew it was over. _It's not the end of the world._ But it may as well be. Ulraunt had to punish her. Of course he did. So he'd take back all she had achieved, all she'd proven, all the trust she'd earned. Everything. Everything she'd worked for.

Visitor.

Tethtoril's hand touched her shoulder. She was shaking, hadn't noticed. Hadn't noticed him come in. "Child..."

And she felt like one. Like they had shrunk her down and she just kept sinking smaller. To nothing. _Nothing, _Miirym had said, _nothing we are nothing._

Miirym. "How am I going to tell her?" Sajantha mumbled, hand on her mouth, the words jumbling together like all her thoughts—hopes—spilling out.

Imoen's hand on her, now, tugging her from the room; they stumbled out together into the sunlit hall.

The nigh-impossible had become impossible. All the books in the keep, all the scrolls: all over her head, all out of reach. _Visitor. _"I..." Sajantha staggered forward, caught her balance on a window. Turned to look out, at the daylight Miirym could not—would not ever—see. "I thought if I could just... if I only had enough time..." Her forehead touched the glass. "What am I going to _do?_" Wide eyes stared back. Dazed. Desperate.

Imoen stood behind her, her reflection just as pale. "Don't... just don't do anything stupid, Sajantha. You don't got to beat yourself up. She'll understand."

_Hope is a limp, mangled thing. _

Yes. She understood all too well.

Miirym was not surprised. She wasn't much of anything, really; the great wyrm remained far too quiet. Far too calm. Not at all like Sajantha felt: as if there were an energy trapped inside her, a desperation trying to dig itself out, but diving ever-deeper. _Every day it swallows another piece... _Helpless, hopeless. She hugged her harp.

"Write me a song, then," was all the dragon said, and Sajantha poured her failure, her frustrations, her fears into her music; the notes flowed forth like tears.

"Yes," whispered Miirym. "Just like that."

Sajantha slumped forward. "But I didn't write it down."

"Well," Miirym said, "it was hardly perfect. You think a handful of years make you an expert? You still need practice. It still needs practice. And, next time: a little more life in it, I think!" Her laughter hung in the air, its echo haunting the dark stone walls.

Sajantha shivered. "How can you _stand_ it?"

"Stand? How can I?" Miirym asked, drifting upward. "Why would I? I haven't any legs."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"I was reading some about Miirym. Found a book on her." Just the one, though, and boy did Imoen have to dig for it. "Don't look so shocked! I can read, too, ya know."

"I know you can. I'm not shocked. Just that you'd do that." Sajantha's hair fell across her eyes as she dipped her head back down. "What's the point, now?" Her fingers kept going, kept plucking at that harp, even when she wasn't looking.

"I don't know as there's a point," Imoen admitted. "Just that, well, it says Miirym's bound with Mystra's permission. And... and Oghma's. To protect the keep."

The notes from the harp weren't high enough to rise, all low and loopy they twisted, like coils in her belly. "Stop it—stop that. I can't think when you're doing that." Imoen grabbed the harp and Sajantha's hands kept moving an extra second like she maybe still played, or was maybe gonna snatch it back. "Did you know that?" Imoen demanded. "The whole time, is that why it needed to be so secret?"

Sajantha stared at her hands. At the spot in her lap where her harp used to be. "So you're supposed to just look the other way," she said, "because everyone tells you to? Even when you know it's wrong. That they're wrong." The line of her jaw stood out, hard. "I thought you'd understand. About breaking rules. They don't know everything."

"Who? Who you talking about, Ulraunt? The monks?" Imoen swallowed. "You don't mean the gods?"

Sajantha's hands clenched, tightening on the harp she didn't hold.

"You're just... you're just asking for trouble. Sajantha..." Imoen shook her head.

Sajantha didn't look up. "It doesn't matter, does it?" Her shoulders hunched. "Nothing I can do, now. Like you said. No point."

"I'm worried about her."

Gorion raised a hand to his chin, finger over his lip. Didn't say nothing, though. Like something more needed to be said? "Sajantha," said Imoen. Just to be clear. Was he just gonna keep staring like that? Imoen crossed her arms. "She got this whole Miirym thing in her head, all 'cause of you. And Mystra was against it. Oghma, too. Why would you tell her to do it—that it was okay? How could you let her?"

Gorion leaned back. Had a gravity about him, he did. Must be where Sajantha got it from, that same quiet that made you want to fill it, say things you shouldn't. "Tell me, Imoen," he said, "what do you do, when someone tells you not to do something?"

"I, um." Imoen shifted her feet. Her face got warmer as he stared at her, waited. He knew already! She blew out a breath. "Well. I'd just go about it quieter, I guess."

Small enough confession, not any details to pin on her. Not that he seemed about to; Gorion nodded like he got the answer he wanted and it didn't surprise him.

"There's no need to thwart rules _all _of the time." The corners of his mouth lifted. "But nor should orders be blindly obeyed. No authority is infallible."

Imoen couldn't believe it, that Gorion—an authority, his own self—would sit here and talk like this. To _her_. But Harpers thought that way, didn't they? No one to boss them. Could as well side with some rebels if the government didn't measure up on their scale of rightness. No wonder he set Ulraunt off, then, almost as bad as Sajantha did. Even if Gorion kept those views to himself, that was different than keeping them secret. Everyone already knew him for a Harper.

Imoen looked up from her palms. Disobeying the monks was one thing. "But... the gods?"

Gorion didn't say anything. Sat there with his chin propped up, gray eyes staring out over his hand. Waiting. Waiting as every second dragged on, dragging Imoen's heartbeat along faster. She licked her lips. "That's dangerous," she told him, as dangerous as the words he didn't say. "That's more dangerous than any wild magic, her going against what gods decided."

"The gods do not own us. The Godswar ensured they need us as much as we them. They cannot set our path." He lowered his voice, fingertips tipped together. "I believe we each forge our own way, despite—because of!—the obstacles thrown before us. I would rather Sajantha follow her heart than follow any path a god decreed for her. And I trust her, Imoen, no matter what stands in her way. I trust her to make the right decisions." He caught her gaze, trapped it tight. "Just as I trust you to stand up to her, when you think she's not."

"Me?" Imoen hugged her arms. "Just what do you want me to do? She's—she's supposed to be the smart one."

"Then what are you so worried about?"

"I, I came to _you_, Mister G." Her voice cracked. "You were supposed to fix it. I wanted you to talk to the Keeper, maybe, get him to reverse this. But she'd just run right back to those spellbooks, wouldn't she? Working to dig Miirym up again. And that ain't no good for no one. But if she can't, she'll be miserable." Imoen dropped her hands. "I don't _know_ how to help her. You tell me what the good choice is. The right thing to do."

"There is a choice," he said. "And sometimes that is luxury enough."

"But what am I supposed to do? You got some great lesson for me?" Imoen tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. "Tell me. Please, Mister G. Tell me what I should do."

"You must trust yourself, first," he said. "The lessons have been taught, and if aught is to be learned from them, they must be put to practice. You may surprise yourself. You may already know what to do."

"I could steal some scrolls. Climb the tower and sneak her back whatever she needed. What do you think of that?"

Gorion shrugged, reaching for the book he'd set down. "If that is what must be done."

Imoen's mouth fell open. "You don't even know!" He couldn't really mean that, just messing with her. "You can't even tell me, 'cause you ain't got a thing to say!"

His gray brow peeked up from behind the book. "I've said plenty, already. Were you not listening?"

"Did you take lessons to be so mysterious?" she demanded. "Or does it come naturally?"

"How much do you learn from lessons," he asked her, the book covering his whole face, now, "and how much more from figuring things out on your own?"

"I'm going with you to see Miirym," Imoen told her. Couldn't have them two moping about depressing each other even more.

Sajantha didn't look impressed. Didn't even look up. No music creeping about her, now, but her stillness just as bad. "Don't you have lessons with Jondalar, or something? Or someone's pants you need to fill with itch-powder?"

Imoen ran her hand through her hair, scrubbed it back. "Look, I'm sorry, okay; I'm sorry it was my fault you got caught with magic. I didn't never want that. I'm sorry. It's just making me _sick_—"

Sajantha's pen hit the table, rolled right off the edge as she whirled. "You're sorry!" Her eyes flew open, looked about to fly off her face, so wide did they stretch. "_You're _sorry? Imoen! It's not your fault. When you said that to Ulraunt, I thought—I thought you were just trying to help me. I..." her voice dropped. "I didn't think you actually believed it." She shook her head. "It was my idea. Just because you happened to be there? I never blamed you, Imoen, not for a second." Sajantha bit her lip. "I'm not mad at you. Did you think I was mad at you?"

"I..." Imoen rubbed at her nose, sniffed. "'Course not. That'd be pretty stupid of me, wouldn't it."

"Even if it _was_ your fault—how could I hold that against you? I _know_ you. How could I blame you?"

"Dunno," said Imoen. "Guess we're both pretty good at blaming ourselves, huh?" She laughed a little.

Sajantha didn't. "Yes," she said, "I suppose we are."


	7. Chapter 7

_ Mirtul 11, 1367 DR  
Year of the Shield_

_ "Beneath those winding halls,  
In the bowels of the keep,  
Secrets hide within those walls:  
Secrets buried deep._

_ For under those tombs and tomes,  
Beneath those deepest deeps—  
Something more secret hides;  
Something secret sleeps."_

"Oh, I don't know... it's just not very _snappy_, is it? And 'sleep', well, it almost implies a sort of negligence, don't you think?"

"Are you really asking what I think? I've written a dozen different versions for you!"

Miirym hummed to herself. "We wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, now."

"They're not supposed to have any idea. That's why it's a secret." Sajantha set down her harp. "If you'd just allow me some notes, maybe, instead of stuffing it all into my head—"

"I quite liked that one with the wailing, what was that, again?

"I don't remember. Ask Imoen."

Imoen grinned from where she leaned against the stone wall.  
_ "This dragon's got no tail, this dragon's got no face—  
But you call her a kobold and she'll grind you into paste!  
This dragon's got no face, this dragon's got no scales—  
But don't you try and cross her, or oh boy she'll make you wail!"_

"Yes, why don't you add something like that?"

"We tried that. And you said you were far too noble to associate with such ribald tavern songs. Or kobolds."

"Did I...?" Mirrym sighed. "I'm sure I was right." She lifted her head. "But just for me, thou speakest—yes? These songs were just for me."

"I'm not as like to leave the keep. You know it. I'm not going anywhere."

"Such a claim to make! Thou art not stuck here, not like poor Miirym, no. It is thine own fears that bind thee, nothing more."

The cold pricked through her clothes; Sajantha leaned forward, crossing her arms.

"Sing the tavern song for me, then. Without the part about the kobold. I don't care for kobolds."

"You don't care for kobolds," Sajantha muttered, plucking at her harp, "you don't care what I say. If you'd all just be quiet, I could figure out a way!" Another pluck, only no sound with it. Sajantha scowled, tried again. Nothing.

Nothing: no sound at all. The silence sat heavy, pushing her down; it crawled into her ears, stuffed them tight—

Sajantha rubbed them, shook her head. Imoen's lips were moving. "What?" Sajantha gasped, feeling only the vibration of her voice, "What did I—"

_ "...oium," _Miirym said, the word hanging in the air like the ringing remaining in Sajantha's ears as the spell lifted.

Imoen, open-mouthed, looked like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or be horrified. Sajantha couldn't decide, either. "Did you just—did you do that to yourself? Make yourself deaf?"

Had she? Sajantha's heart pounded. She licked her lips. But how? "I didn't mean to."

"It's got a truth to it," Imoen said. "Your magic. That's what it is. You say it, make us believe it. Believe you. So it's true. You make it true." She sat back. "Never thought you could do it to your own self, though."

"A sorceress needs not recite a spell, when 'tis her voice that's magic." Miirym looked up. "When all her words are magic."

Sajantha shook her head. "It's not, though; it's not like that. My magic, it doesn't listen to me!"

"Maybe your magic's deaf, too," said Imoen.

"How can it be me, if I can't control it?"

"How can you expect to control it," Miirym asked, "if you cannot accept it?"

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

_26th of Tarsahk, 1368 DR  
Year of the Banner_

Even early spring, the enclosed gardens trapped enough humidity to make it feel like High Braze on Midsummer. The air hung thick with moisture enough to assuage the thirst of all the green growing things, and ensure that any people passing through did so at a hurried pace, lest they be left as damp. Few monks lagged enough to offer Sajantha and her harp more than a smile.

This, then, had become the one place she could play without feeling underfoot, without worrying that she bothered anyone, disrupted anything. If the monks did not enjoy her music, well, they would not hurry any faster away. A perfect arrangement.

When Sajantha played for Miirym in the cool of the deep, her songs were only ever saturated with the gloom that grew down there; it crept in her mind, in her notes. She hoped the life around the gardens could summon a more uplifting tune.

The hanging plants around her rustled, seemed to swing in time to her music. She closed her eyes and pictured her song as a breeze, stirring the air with more than just sound. Her hair fluttered against her face, and she opened her eyes only to discover she had an audience: a surprise that lost her fingering and her voice both. The harp squeaked, a far more elegant sound than she made. The heavy air seemed to settle, thick; she licked her lips and looked up. "Oops."

Not one of the abbey's own, but his robes marked him a monk all the same. The stranger's full mouth curved into a smile. "A lovely tune," he said. "I am sorry to have shortened it."

"Oh," Sajantha said, brushing off her skirts. "Thanks. It's quite alright." Though she could not even recall what she had been playing. Unable to start it up again, she faltered for anything to fill the silence. "It takes my mind off things," she told him, because it was clear her mind was nowhere near her, and it might be best to admit it, straightaway. The air felt far warmer than it had just a moment before.

"Ah," the young man said, crossing his arms behind his back. "I could use a diversion, myself."

She tilted her head. Not so very much older than she, somewhere in his twenties, she guessed. She'd seen a similar shaven scalp bent over books in the library... "Alaundo," she blurted. "You're the fellow studying Alaundo."

He paused, drawing back a bit. "I am... flattered you found me of note."

She glanced back down at her harp. "Not so many visitors about the keep that we fail to notice them." And not so much going on about the keep, at that.

"I see." He folded his arms in front of him, now, his sleeves strained around strong arms. "You know Alaundo?"

Who here did not! "It's rather difficult to escape him. You must have heard the Chant when you arrived? There's monks marching about reading his prophecies every hour. We've practically all got them memorized."

"Perhaps I might have your assistance analyzing some of his passages, then."

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm nothing like an expert—though there's plenty who would be happy to assist you. I know Seeker Karan has some more unusual interpretations, if you're in need of a fresh look. And the sage Gorion knows quite a lot, as well. If he's the time to spare."

"Yes," he said. "I have... encountered Gorion, already."

"Then you really don't need me, after all." She gave a little shrug. "Good luck to you, though."

He shook his head a bit, took some slow steps away. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

Sajantha had just packed up her harp when she noticed Imoen. Hands on hips, her friend thinned her lips and started shaking her head. Sajantha looked around. "What?"

"Handsome guy like that pays you a compliment and that's the best you can do? That encounter was absolutely _rife_ with possibilities and you let it slip right on by. You're hopeless!"

"Why?" Sajantha straightened. "What was I supposed to do? I said 'thank you'!"

Imoen sighed.

Sajantha hugged her harp to her chest. "You think he liked me?"

"I think if you open up your eyes and look out from a book once in awhile, you can start figuring things out for yourself. I think you won't ever know if you don't ever try."

"It's almost the end of his tenday. He'll be leaving soon, anyhow."

Imoen snorted. "What kind of child of a Harper are you, if you can't even be brave with this little thing?"

"That's different!"

"It ain't. Brave is brave. Your heart's beating fast and you're scared, but you ignore it. It gets better. Fun, even." She grinned. "You should try it."

The next day, Sajantha found the young monk had not moved very far. Alaundo's familiar books covered his table, worn and welcoming.

"_K__nowledge of our world is to be nurtured like a precious flower, for it is the most precious thing we have_," she said.

He looked up, brow furrowed. How irritated was she when interrupted in such a state! She cursed Imoen's interference beneath her breath. Visitors traveled hundreds of miles and spent a small fortune simply for the privilege of accessing the keep—not to be interrupted by silly girls! She shouldn't have thought to involve herself.

His light eyes stared up at her, expectant. Exasperated? "Alaundo," she said, pointing at the open volume. She hoped her face was not so very red as it felt.

"Ah..." he said, "that's right." He really looked at her, then, squinting a bit. "The harpist." His fingers flexed.

"Sajantha." She mimed a curtsy. "Bard of the Binder, singer of songs—and scriber of scrolls, should you need any copies." Ulraunt's recent compromise there seemed more akin to a punishment.

"And quite a musician." He held out his hand. "Koveras."

Something shimmered as though she reached through a weave; she caught the briefest flicker across his eyes. He stared back at her, that sheen of light remained: eyes not glowing, but—

He blinked. The only thing in his eyes was confusion. He looked up, covered in flecks of gold, blinking them away, but the particles wouldn't disappear.

"I'm sorry!" she blurted, dropping his hand to raise her own to her mouth: a hand covered in the same fine, golden dust. She shook them off to no avail, tried rubbing them on her clothes as she spoke. "I'm so sorry—it happens sometimes, when I'm, um—"

_ tense troubled turbulent—_

The heat on her face seemed to have interfered with her tongue as well. "I've been trying, but it—sometimes it gets away from me. I'm so sorry."

Koveras did not move. Was it only her anxious mind that likened his stillness to a coiled crouch, as if that majestic golden sculpture might at any moment burst to life in a shower of sparks?

She held her breath; the moment passed, and when the golden man at last stirred, he was as calm and composed as his voice: "Your magic is often this unpredictable?"

"Aye. My father says it's to do with the Weave—wild magic."

"Wild magic," he repeated. "I have read of this: unfocused. Chaotic. Power without direction..." He did not look upset any longer. "Who did you say your father was?"

"Oh. Gorion—Gorion's my father."

"Is he, now...?" The monk must not be mad, after all; she caught a distinct curve to his lips.

"Don't—please don't tell anyone about this, though." She began to brush the glitterdust from him, but lost her nerve, afraid to press her luck. She gripped her hand to her chest, instead. "If the Keeper should find out—well, we've ever been at odds over this sort of thing."

"I can't imagine why." Koveras smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. "Do not fear, Sajantha. I have business to attend to, but I will keep your secret with me."

"Will you—will you be returning, though? I mean, how goes your research?"

The corners of his mouth turned up. Amused? Was he laughing at her? He hid it in very well, if so; perhaps he was just being polite. "Better than I had thought... though there are always more loose ends to tie up. But you know what sticklers these monks are for rules." He stood, and Sajantha was drawn to her feet with him. Looking even more like a statue with the gold coating his broad shoulders, he stooped to scoop up his readings. "I will have to come back later."

"Oh," said Sajantha. "Then I suppose I will see you again..."

Koveras glanced back once more over his shoulder as he walked away. This time it was definitely a smile. "I'm already looking forward to it."

Sajantha shared a smile with her feet before noticing that her father stood nearby. She wondered if he had been watching, a thought that made her heart stutter out a bit. She brushed her hands off again on her skirts. Why should she feel so out of sorts? She hadn't done anything wrong. Not really.

Sajantha smiled at her father. He must have been looking past her, though; he didn't smile back.

* * *

Hi! I hate to leave a tag like "please R&R" but you have no idea how much it would help me if you leave a comment. I mean, not only does it give me a boost of energy/inspiration to keep writing (and considering how long this is taking me, every little bit helps), but I am actually trying to bring my writing to a professional/publish-able level, so any kind of feedback I get is priceless to me... so really, I will literally beg you if I have to. It's just as helpful to know what I'm doing wrong as what I'm doing right (well, probably _more_ helpful, even-I keep wondering what I most need to improve on, and it's making it harder to post the next part, since I don't want to keep making the same mistakes...). So whether you liked it or not or whatever; I'd love to hear anything you have to say. Thanks, and thank you so much for reading!


End file.
